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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26702644">if the gods should touch you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/starghost/pseuds/starghost'>starghost</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Octopath Traveler (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alfyn's dad is a big mystery isn't he?, Canon-Typical Violence, During Canon, Everyone shows up eventually, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Serious Injuries, Therion's acting skills, a little light theology, get in loser we're healing from past trauma and changing our negative coping mechanisms, having fun with secondary jobs, tags to be added as they come up or I think of them, the powers of a god are dangerous</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:54:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>58,263</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26702644</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/starghost/pseuds/starghost</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The question isn't how long does it take to find a dragonstone or a book; the question is—what else will you find?</p>
<p>(Or: a long road toward making out, down a path paved with magic, getting hurt, divinity, running away, weird monsters, reading, and finally telling the truth.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cyrus Albright/Therion, Primrose Azelhart/H'aanit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>86</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. hail, traveler</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the days after a battle that they never expected to face, deep in a crumbling mine, Cyrus will slip in and out of unconsciousness like his life is a book and he keeps losing his place. In this, he senses that there is a larger story and that he has a place in it, but now he is astray, getting glimpses of pages he doesn't understand: a desert oasis with Therion outlined against the stars; Alfyn broken down on a bridge overlooking a wide river; Tressa, who he barely knows, calling up a storm inside a cave; a hulking monster with a familiar face, spitting blood as Cyrus furiously calls lightning to his hands; a monster as tall as the university's spires, roiling with bodies and limbs in the dark; a star shining within a woman he does not know.</p><p class="p3">Simultaneously, separately, mixed together in the flashes of his dying mind (for he knows he is, with a poison in his lungs) he drops back into waking life: it is afternoon in the dark cave, then it is morning among trees, then it is early morning in a moving cart, then it is rain on a house window at any time at all, and then it is night, very deep and dark, with Therion next to him, making complex shapes out of a loop of string without looking at his fingers. His eyes meet Cyrus's bleary gaze.</p><p class="p3">This lasts forever, or a few seconds. Then the world is gone again.</p><p class="p3">It is morning, and next to him is once again Alfyn, eating some mush in a bowl.</p><p class="p3">"You're awake?" Alfyn asks, worried and bright, and Cyrus makes a noise in response. That's enough of an answer for the apothecary, who starts to check Cyrus over, prodding him with a constant narration which Cyrus doesn't listen to. In the time between the battle and Alfyn's question, Cyrus experienced enough strange things, like curling up with a dragon, hot as fire, and Therese with her hair transformed into a vast net that tangled him up, so that Cyrus won't think much of that moment in the dark or Therion's eyes.</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3">Weeks before, Therion is being admonished by Alfyn for not saying anything about the bruise on his left wrist, doesn't Therion know that could be a bigger problem? Therion and Alfyn have been traveling together for nearly two months, so Therion doesn't argue when Alfyn wraps his wrist with a bandage soaked in something and tells him not to stab anyone for at least the next day. Probably longer. He'll decide tomorrow. Primrose and Cyrus are politely scouting the road ahead, or, rather, they've fled from Therion's glares at being tattled on.</p><p class="p3">Once he's finished, Alfyn puts all the bits of his apothecary kit back in his satchel. Therion tests the movement in his left hand. He can wiggle his fingers but not bend his wrist. Which means he'll be half-useless in a fight. And he's stronger with his left hand than his right. Though his right also has a bandage over a gash from that morning. Which means in this time on the road, between towns, he is dead weight.</p><p class="p3">"If you aggravate your wrist," Alfyn says in his serious-apothecary voice, which comes out very rarely, even considering their current situation, "it might never be the same again. I reckon that wouldn't fit too well with your lifestyle."</p><p class="p3">Therion scowls. "And what do I do now? We're still almost a week from Noblecourt."</p><p class="p3">"Atlasdam's a lot closer. Safe place to rest up," Alfyn says.</p><p class="p3">Atlasdam is where they met Cyrus, who has fit into their little group with surprising grace for such an at-times obtuse scholar. Alfyn welcomed him easily—Alfyn would welcome an axe-wielding frog monster easily—but Primrose was the one who suggested that Cyrus join them, after they helped to recover his missing book. Therion had raised no objections. Therion thought Cyrus was talented with magic, which was helpful, and it never hurt to have someone that handsome around. Good distraction for small thefts. Also, Therion didn't mind having someone that handsome around.</p><p class="p3">"We're not going <em>backwards</em>," Therion says.</p><p class="p3">"Then you'll have to figure something else out," Alfyn says.</p><p class="p3">Something else. Hm. Therion could use his daggers anyway. Therion could try to focus on snapping fireballs into existence with more power. Therion could hide whenever they ran into a problem. Therion could climb a tree for the duration, honestly.</p><p class="p3">The second, which is the only reasonable solution, fizzles into nothing when he tries. Not the fireball — that's not half bad, though pathetic compared to the spells that Cyrus conjures with his confident gestures and smooth voice. The problem is that fire doesn't seem to bother any of the beasts in the area, not like a swift slice to the neck would. During the second day, Therion prays to the gods that they'll hit Noblecourt before dark via some heretofore unknown shortcut.</p><p class="p3">They instead encounter several axe-wielding frogs.</p><p class="p3">At the sight, Therion first thinks he's hit his head very hard, but then he's too busy dodging and cursing his fireballs and narrowly missing being thwacked, until he does, in fact, embarrassingly, but maybe deniably, hide from the fight. He watches Primrose dive in with her dagger, then pull away with a perfect spin in time for Cyrus to blast the last beast with ice, finishing it off. At least with ice there's no smell of charred hair and flesh, Therion thinks, sidling out toward them like he hadn't been hiding. Alfyn leaps to Primrose's side as she takes a shaky step.</p><p class="p3">"A scratch," she says, "leave me alone."</p><p class="p3">"Shut up and take your medicine," Alfyn says cheerfully, as he cleans blood from her leg. Cyrus stumbles over and sits heavily on the ground by Therion's feet.</p><p class="p3">"Do you need him?" Therion says. Cyrus shakes his head. Breathless and tired, but not injured. Therion digs in his bag for a skin of plum water and passes it over. Cyrus drinks thirstily.</p><p class="p3">"Fine!" Alfyn exclaims. Alfyn is exhausted, or he wouldn't be yelling. This is all probably due to the others carrying Therion's dead weight. "If you insist on spilling the last of my ointment because you can't hold still, we'll just have to find <em>wild</em> blackblossom and make <em>more</em>."</p><p class="p3">"You're the one insisting that a scratch—"</p><p class="p3">"A scratch doesn't openly weep blood, Primrose," Alfyn says. He drags her between the trees. For a moment, Therion wonders if it's all play-acting, an excuse to disappear together, but—just after battle? Besides, they're still mostly in sight. Until Therion joins Cyrus on the ground, at least. The undergrowth is thick. Plenty of blackblossom around, probably, whatever that is.</p><p class="p3">"I never used to run into mad axe-wielding frogs when I traveled," Cyrus says.</p><p class="p3">"Only sword-wielding ones?"</p><p class="p3">Cyrus laughs. "I suppose in the past I would be traveling in a carriage, rather than on foot. Nevertheless—I do wonder if the world hasn't gotten more dangerous. If perhaps there is some larger issue at hand, which is creating more monsters. Perhaps they would otherwise be peaceful, if rather large, frogs, but... Oh, I don't like the idea of it." His theorizing voice turns into a grim voice. There's still a weariness to it. "There is certainly a larger... but whether someone is acting on it? If the tome has... But who would sanely do such a thing?"</p><p class="p3">"Professor, you're rambling," Therion says, but his heart isn't in it to tease. He picks at the bandage around his wrist. Alfyn checks it several times a day. He makes approving sounds, but leaves it in place, and doesn't say anything when Therion asks how much longer.</p><p class="p3">"Therion!" Primrose shouts, appearing between the trees. She stops when her eyes land on them. "Cyrus! You have to see this!"</p><p class="p3">They look at each other, rise, and follow her into the trees. Therion hopes it's an arcane treasure chest that contains a valuable antique that some spendthrift scholar will lust after. That's the sort of thing that scholars lust after, anyway. Primrose leads them into a cave, torchlight deep within.</p><p class="p3">No treasure chest.</p><p class="p3">It's a lot more than that.</p><p class="p3">Cyrus is a steady stream of commentary, low and almost inaudible, but Therion can tell he's spouting off everything he knows about the ancient architecture that inexplicably surrounds them. Architecture inside of a cave. Pillars and arches and a dais and markings and light. Stones, Therion thinks, it's just stones. Maybe valuable. But he can't put a price on any of it. His mind has temporarily forgotten prices. He doesn't remember the word for... the stuff you pay for things with. The metal things, and paper. It doesn't matter. There's an altar in front of them. A light, shining. A fullness in the air. Like he inhales a world in each breath. A carved figurine sits on the altar, which Therion can barely make out, the suggestion of a book, but more, too. A shiver runs down his spine. There is a presence in this place.... but not one he would run from.</p><p class="p3">"What is it?" Alfyn whispers. Cyrus's mutterings stop.</p><p class="p3">"A forgotten shrine," Cyrus says. "Or hidden."</p><p class="p3">"Should we be here?" Primrose asks.</p><p class="p3">"Two of us approach. Two keep watch. Could be unknown for a reason," Therion says. "Cyrus."</p><p class="p3">The two of them mount the steps together. Once they're both within arm's reach of the altar, a voice rings out, and yet makes no sound. It echoes in Therion's head. The figurine disappears in a burst of light, cascading and exploding without heat, blinding with beauty and not a little pain, a ringing in his ears. When Therion's vision clears, the room feels less full. Cyrus stares down at his clenched hand, which he slowly opens.</p><p class="p3">"What is it?" Cyrus asks, in a way that isn't seeking an answer. He lifts his hand closer to his face. And he starts to laugh, before turning to Therion. "Perfect!" he exclaims.</p><p class="p3">It's a pendant on a chain, which Cyrus loops over Therion's head before Therion can do or say anything. That full feeling, the satisfaction, the buoyancy, it returns, but entirely inside of Therion. Cyrus pulls at the chain so that Therion can see the pendant around his neck. The figurine, flattened to a coin.</p><p class="p3">With the grin of a new discovery, Cyrus tugs at Therion's good arm, and says, "Come."</p><p class="p3">They push past Primrose and Alfyn, Cyrus hurrying back to the path outside the cave, dragging Therion along until they stand on the crest of a hill. Cyrus positions Therion to look out over the wide expanse of grass. Standing behind him, Cyrus lifts Therion's hands to stretch in front of them, and with his own hands on Therion's shoulders, says into his ear, "Repeat after me."</p><p class="p3">With no idea what is happening, Therion concentrates on the thing that seems achievable: Repeating the words that Cyrus whispers into his ear, even if Therion doesn't know what they are and stumbles over the pronunciation.</p><p class="p3">Fire bursts into the air. Not a fireball. A torrent.</p><p class="p3">"Shit!" Therion exclaims, stumbling back against Cyrus. Cyrus squeezes his shoulders and rights him, another laugh like the one in the cave tickling Therion's ear.</p><p class="p3">"Now, say—"</p><p class="p3">Therion repeats, and an icy blast follows the flames. Therion tears the necklace off and yells "What the fuck!" before he throws it at Cyrus's chest.</p><p class="p3">Cyrus catches it.</p><p class="p3">"Ah. Yes. I should have told you first," he says. Contrition gusts across his face, but the emotions keep shifting, to concern, to a strange peace, to worry, as he talks. "But I wasn't certain it <em>was</em> what I thought. It's a talent, Therion. A <em>talent.</em> There were stories, but I thought that's all they were. We study from books, and spend years learning the history and the dead languages and the rituals—in the hopes that we recapture a fraction of the power that the gods showed when they walked the land. Every scholar learns the stories, and some are tempted to look further. These stories said that the gods sometimes bestowed talents on travelers, or on the favored, the blessed, the elect—grand rulers, or honorable ones, or sometimes those who tricked the gods. All of these, or none of them. I don't know if I should admit this, but there are so many conflicting stories it's almost worthless, sometimes, to be a scholar." Cyrus pauses, and laughs. Cyrus laughs a lot, for someone who has been thrown out of his elite university posting and relegated to wandering the wilds while fighting strange beasts in the company of a thief and a whore. And Alfyn. "Then again, the challenge is to suss out the truth from all those stories, which is not a challenge I would avoid. The truth is, it turns out, that the gods do give talents, sometimes. This time."</p><p class="p3">Cyrus holds the necklace out.</p><p class="p3">"I don't understand," Alfyn says. They had followed, obviously, but how quickly? The way that Primrose looks at Therion says she, at least, had followed quickly enough.</p><p class="p3">"Alephan, the Scholarking," Cyrus says, his voice almost breaking with the joy of the phrase.</p><p class="p3">"So we did all hear that," Primrose says. Relief floods Therion like cold water, relief he didn't know he needed.</p><p class="p3">"You could learn what I know, and likely more. I could help. Any of you." Cyrus says this, but his eyes shoot back to Therion a fraction too fast.</p><p class="p3">"No," Therion says.</p><p class="p3">"Well, not so fast," Alfyn says. "Why not?"</p><p class="p3">"You didn't feel it," Therion says.</p><p class="p3">"But you already have a skill with fire," Alfyn says.</p><p class="p3">"And you can throw ice," Therion protests, eliding where his skill comes from.</p><p class="p3">Alfyn shrugs. "I've still got your daggers, anyway."</p><p class="p3">Therion frowns.</p><p class="p3">"Why not you?" Primrose, this time.</p><p class="p3">Cyrus steps toward him. They weren't that far apart to begin with, and now Cyrus barely has to extend his hand to offer the necklace back. "Come now, Therion. You already know you can remove it from your neck. Do you feel worse for having worn it?"</p><p class="p3">Slowly, Therion shakes his head.</p><p class="p3">"You know what it is, now. I should have told you my suspicions initially, and I'm sorry that I didn't, but think of what you could do. All I ask is that you not discount the idea immediately. Consider it," Cyrus says. He drops his voice so the next part is just between them. It is excruciatingly intimate. "You're the cleverest of us all. It would be my honor to teach you what I could."</p><p class="p3">Therion doesn't take the necklace. He doesn't move away. He looks at it, a little coin on a chain. It's silver and a little tarnished with age—but not as simple as that. Iridescent, too. The pages on the minuscule book are almost translucent. He remembers its weight, and yet the comfort of it. It was like a great hand pressing on the back of his neck, and lifting him at the same time. He looks and looks at it, until Cyrus closes his hand like the silence was the answer.</p><p class="p3">"Yeah," Therion says. "Why not."</p><p class="p3">Cyrus lets out a great surprised burst of laughter, and claps his empty hand on Therion's shoulder. "Good man!"</p><p class="p3">"Just until I get my daggers back," Therion says.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>welcome to the fic that ate my brain and heart! I hope you enjoy. I expect I'll post a chapter every week or two. </p><p>all chapter titles are phrases from the game and I'll have you know I am very proud of this, also exhausted. will update tags as things progress provided I remember.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. a sentimental fool</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p3">In the tavern, Therion sits with Primrose and waits for the others to finish exploring the town and join them; they are in Noblecourt and Therion's bag is heavy with a stone he never wanted in the first place. He plays with one of his daggers, which Alfyn returned to him a day after they set foot in Noblecourt. Playing with daggers is hardly notable in this tavern, which makes Therion like it a little. In a concession to the cooler climate, Primrose wears a shawl like Therion's over her dancer's garb. At the moment, her hands are hidden under it, and her second drink sits untouched.</p>
<p class="p3">"You'll be heading back to Bolderfall with that thing," Primrose says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Soon," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"You want that bangle off or not?"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion pulls his sleeve down again. The bangle isn't overly burdensome, but noticeable. That's the point. Even with his sleeve, you can see the bulk of it. And there it would stay until he finished the Ravus woman's task. One stone down, two to go. He'd hear where they were, soon enough. Maybe he'd be able to find the next one on his own before meandering back to the demanding duo. And maybe the bangle would fall off on its own.</p>
<p class="p3">"It's out of the way to go straight back," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Out of the way for what?" Primrose asks. He shrugs and nods toward her. After that, with a shake of her head and a long draw on her drink, she shifts the conversation, and Therion lets her, not particularly caring either way.</p>
<p class="p3">Early the next morning, Therion sits on a low stone wall, his heels digging into gaps in the stone, and watches the crowds. Quiet, busy for the hour. They will, he thinks, head north after resupplying. Search for the man Primrose hunts. And then, eventually, he will wind his way back to Bolderfall. In the meantime, he could keep an ear to the ground for any news of the other two stones. Heathcote wasn't the only one who could pick up information. Therion scowls at the thought of the man.</p>
<p class="p3">Primrose appears and leans against the wall next to him. For a while, they sit in silence. He counts the easy marks, and the hard ones. He eyes a woman who's too aware of her pocket, and he speculates to himself about exactly what sort of jewelry she's carrying. Or perhaps something deliciously forbidden.</p>
<p class="p3">"I say it's love letters," Primrose says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Heh," Therion says. "You're a secret romantic?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Romance is for other people," she says. "The weight looks at best like a small book. So, packet of love letters. You going to find out?"</p>
<p class="p3">The woman keeps up the same cycle of unconscious movements: brushing a lock of hair behind her ear, smoothing her skirt, thumb brushing the edge of her pocket, clasping her hands in front of her, pretending to look at a shop window. But her eyes look at her own reflection. Like she wants to make sure she still looks okay. "Hmph. Love letters. No, not worth getting up," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Could be racy," Primrose says, nudging him with a shoulder until he smirks. "So, how long until you drop that stone off and get your next destination?"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion shrugs. "Could take a while."</p>
<p class="p3">"Don't let the two happy idiots get you off track." Out of nowhere, Primrose clasps Therion's hand tight, that strong dagger grip drawing him in. She says, "You know better. You look out for yourself."</p>
<p class="p3">"Who else is gonna?" he replies, without thinking. She smirks, lets go, and walks away as though she were off on an errand. Therion returns to watching the crowd that she disappeared into.</p>
<p class="p3">Before his legs fall asleep, Therion hops off the wall and goes to see if Alfyn has finished stocking up. Therion's wrist no longer needs the same attention from the apothecary, but there are plenty of other concoctions that Therion's happy to have access to. Instead of Alfyn, he finds Cyrus sourly staring at a cold bowl of porridge in the inn, but his expression neutralizes when he hears Therion. Not quite the easy grin that Cyrus usually sports. "Are we off?" Cyrus asks.</p>
<p class="p3">"Whenever you're ready. We'll have to track down Prim again," Therion says, sitting. Cyrus gives him a puzzled look.</p>
<p class="p3">"Why?"</p>
<p class="p3">"She went off this morning," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Therion... Did she not say goodbye?" Cyrus asks, looking more pitying than anything in the world would call for, in Therion's opinion.</p>
<p class="p3">"Oh, right. Heading north," Therion says. He thinks about that handshake, and their last exchange. "'Course she did." He just didn't realize it 'til now, and he's struck with surprise. Surprise at her leaving, yes, but surprise that he's sad to see her go. That, he shoves back where it came from. She was always going to leave, anyway. These are tenuous, temporary alliances. Any of them, including Therion, might leave. Any of them might screw the others to get to their own goals. Except Alfyn, probably. Which made Therion watch him all the closer.</p>
<p class="p3">"Then why did you say we needed to find her before leaving?" Cyrus asks, all idiotic curiosity, blindly stumbling into making Therion admit he hadn't understood, which felt a lot like pouring hot oil over his head. Therion stands.</p>
<p class="p3">"Eat your porridge, Albright," he says, and goes back outside.</p>
<p class="p3"><em>Well,</em> Therion thinks, <em>you're not supposed to give a shit about this, are you?</em></p>
<p class="p3">The world feels very loud and particularly stupid and a little overwhelming, all voices and movement, a thousand pockets and a thousand eyes and a thousand footsteps, people everywhere who could, at any moment, destroy his life. If he isn't careful. If he doesn't keep his wrist hidden and his hands to himself. If he meets the wrong eye. <em>Look out for yourself.</em> Get out of Noblecourt before someone starts wondering what happened at the mansion. Before Barham decides he needs Therion to steal just one more thing, no, one more, one little measly thing, before throwing him to the guard. Therion's bag weighs too much, and he isn't close to free. His chest aches. Every person passing seems to look at him with a dark suspicion, every eye flitting to his wrist, which he knows isn't true, he <em>knows</em> most people are too wrapped up in their own little lives to notice him, that's why it's so easy to pick their pockets, but that doesn't do anything for the paranoia rising up to choke him.</p>
<p class="p3">He crosses his arms tight under his cloak and hunches against the wall of the inn. Every footstep, every voice, every clatter of a wheel on the stones whirls together into a storm.</p>
<p class="p3">"Alfyn wants to stay until he's certain a tonic has had the desired effect for a man down the street," Cyrus says, appearing at Therion's side, out of the riot. Silhouetted by the sun, Cyrus's expression is just visible. The intense focus in the eyes, like Therion himself is a subject of study. For all they joke about Cyrus's inability to see the women posing in front of him, he is at times a too-keen observer. "As it seemed that would take at least until lunch, I said we would head to the fields outside of town and get some practice in, rather than have idleness tempt either of us into unfruitful tasks."</p>
<p class="p3">Therion squints up at Cyrus.</p>
<p class="p3">"Buying dusty old books," Cyrus says, gesturing at himself. Then he stretches a hand toward Therion, and shrugs, the rest not necessary to say. "Shall we?"</p>
<p class="p3">By the time they reach the edge of town, Therion has berated himself back into calm. They find a field beyond a fence, which could reasonably be assumed to be common property unless someone comes running to say otherwise. It's quiet. The grasses by the fence on both sides are grown high. They stomp around to flatten a section enough to stand without twisting an ankle on a hidden clump of grass or rock, and between that and the sun, Therion is warmed through. He tosses his cloak to the side and finds his place next to Cyrus.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion pulls the necklace out and fastens it around his neck. Every night, Therion takes the pendant off and stows it in the most secure pocket in his bag. Every morning, once it's light enough to rise, Therion checks it's still there, eats a bit of breakfast, and puts it back around his neck at the last possible minute. It's not that it's too heavy for him to bear. The talent is an unreal feeling, and he finds himself suspicious of it. Within the metal is something beyond him, beyond all of them, and he trusts his lack of trust. It has kept him alive. A few years ago he didn't have the distrust. Not like the tool it is now. Every morning before putting the necklace on, and every night before taking it off, he examines it, in case it changes. It doesn't.</p>
<p class="p3">"I feel you've mastered the fire storm, which is to be expected, considering your expertise sending off fireballs," Cyrus says. He puts his hands on his hips and cocks his head at Therion thoughtfully. "You've done well with the ice wind, as well. I believe you simply need to use it in battle, and more practice in this quiet field won't help with your hesitation. If I may be so bold, I have noticed that when a fight turns at all difficult—precisely when using powerful magic might benefit you—you resort to the familiar. Understandable..."</p>
<p class="p3">Birds sing in the distance, and there's a rustling from some animal Therion can't be bothered to turn and identify in the field behind them. Cyrus's hair is tousled by the wind, a strand of it caught on his brow and stuck in his face, but he doesn't seem to notice. He keeps musing about Therion's state of mind in battle. Therion crosses his arms.</p>
<p class="p3">"I'd rather live than test out new magic. This is fun and all, but push comes to shove? I know where to cut a man to bring him down. Even a scholar like Orlick," Therion says. Cyrus's face darkens. It wasn't meant to threaten the scholar standing in front of him, far from it.</p>
<p class="p3">"Therion," Cyrus says. Then, to Therion's surprise, instead of walking away, he says, "You have to trust us to fight by your side. If you must, shout that you need cover, and Alfyn or I will be there."</p>
<p class="p3">Therion looks down with a scowl, unable to hide behind the piled collar of his cloak. Cyrus drops a hand heavily onto his shoulder.</p>
<p class="p3">"My friend, we have traveled together, learned together, fought together. There is no question in my mind that if I were in trouble, you and your daggers would come to my aid. Why would you think any different of me?"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion shrugs out from under Cyrus's hand. "Experience," he says, and turns to face the distant horizon, simultaneously finding new footing and distancing himself from the scholar. "So, a scolding to use ice wind in a fight. So what else do you think this god's talent would help with?"</p>
<p class="p3">"When we met, I had just mastered a spell for a lightning strike. It's still fairly new to me, but—" Cyrus says, cutting himself off as he searches his pockets. He draws out a small notebook and riffles through it. "Ah! Perhaps you'd like to try this one?"</p>
<p class="p3">After peering at the notebook, muttering under his breath, Therion adopts his usual stance for their practice. It's more sturdy than if he were preparing his daggers, but light on his toes. Not as heavy in the heels as Cyrus always stands, but he does his best to find the weight of the earth pulling him down, grounding him. He repeats the words under his breath in practice, getting into the rhythm of it. Each time he tries a new spell, it takes him a minute to get past the nothing-will-happen-you-idiot feeling, and shift to not caring. To really trying.</p>
<p class="p3">"Remember, you have to dig deep to find full control over a spell, in order to direct it where you want. I found this particularly true for this spell," Cyrus says. Therion has already managed some sparking in the air, but rather too close to the pair of them for Cyrus's comfort. "Like you're pushing it away."</p>
<p class="p3">Therion takes a deep breath and shifts on his feet uneasily.</p>
<p class="p3">When Therion learned to throw a fireball, it was like throwing a fist. A word tattooed on his wrist, a back-alley cheat of the spells that Cyrus studied and analyzed and carried in books that were as much a part of him as Therion's tattoo. But a tattoo only worked about thirty percent of the time—when you got it from someone who knew what they were doing. It was sheer luck, not his usual casing, that got Therion to the right person two years before. He'd been steady on his feet by then, but not quite steady somewhere inside, not quite the same thief again. Relying on rumors and rumors, he traveled to Stillsnow, stealing his way into inns and sometimes beds, hitching between towns or wearing his boots thin. There, the cold biting his skin, he pocketed enough ill-attended fortune to pay for the ink, then more to pay for a scant hour's instruction—and that only after the spell inker dropped vague threats about fire burning from the inside out if you didn't know how to manage it. Therion could have knifed the man right then, but instead he came back with a jeweled flask more than worth the con's asking price.</p>
<p class="p3">For a while, the fire almost helped.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion widens his stance, rolls his shoulders, and whispers the words to himself. This time, when he voices them, he imagines the words riding along his movement, magic shifting like a dagger thrown, and at the last syllable he pushes forward with his hands.</p>
<p class="p3">Lightning crackles from nowhere. The flattened grass smokes, blackens, glows.</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus throws ice water at the burning grass with as much effort as tossing away a piece of rubbish. As they both look at the damp, steaming ground, he puts a hand on Therion's back. Therion has to admit, if only to himself, that these practices are thrilling. The feeling of magic moving through him, the moment of power and success—the pride emanating from the professor. He's more apt to let a genuine smile slip through. He forgets the weight of the talent in favor of the weight of Cyrus's encouraging hand.</p>
<p class="p3">"Well done," Cyrus says. "Though perhaps in the future we should practice on bare dirt."</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p3"> </p>
<p class="p3">They barely make it outside of Noblecourt before they come to a decision point in their path, and after discussing the subject throughout their evening meal, Cyrus sighs his way out of the conversation. He pages through a book he found in town: a moderately rare tome that contains information about magic that isn't exactly condoned in polite company. There's little new to him in it, but it's worth refreshing himself, particularly in this age of monsters. Any new tangent of magic may help.</p>
<p class="p3">While Cyrus studies, Alfyn and Therion continue to consult with each other (or, rather, argue) and decide that though it might be faster to cut back through Atlasdam, exit toward the southwest, and follow the narrow shore along the edge of the Whisperwood, they will follow the longer northern road around the forest. From their tone, they seem to assume that while Cyrus is reading he is therefore deaf to all conversation; Alfyn suggests that heading back to Atlasdam with the scholar would probably be impolite at best, considering the circumstances under which Cyrus left.</p>
<p class="p3">"You mean resigned with disgrace under a looming scandal?" Therion asks.</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus, who has no trouble listening and reading simultaneously, says, "It wasn't true. But it was a convenient excuse to leave. Regardless, I have no interest in going back at this juncture, even if it is faster."</p>
<p class="p3">"Good," Therion says, "because that little route also includes some untamed forest, wilder beasts than I'm interested in meeting, and probably a few pirates skirting the bay. I'm not interested in dying at this juncture."</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus smirks. "Well said. So, the slower road to Bolderfall."</p>
<p class="p3">Through the Flatlands, Cyrus continues to coach Therion on the spells. While Therion has learned the words—an impressively quick study, even moreso than Cyrus thought he would be—Cyrus isn't sure that, with the pendant, the words matter as much. What if they tried without the pendant, but with the words; would the spell still work as well? What if Therion tried the pendant through sheer will, without the crutch of language? Is it a tool for learning, or is it the entire conduit of power? Along the way, Cyrus tries not to so much as think a single word about how Therion has been back to his daggers for well over a week, as though if he did, Therion would sense it and toss aside the talent.</p>
<p class="p3">Instead, they practice when Alfyn forages for his apothecary kit. Sometimes Alfyn brings back additional food along with his medicinal herbs and roots. One day, Therion tells Alfyn to forage hard, that they all should. They're far from any town, at the edge of the flatlands, and though they've been depending on their ability to hunt and forage, they have not felt any want.</p>
<p class="p3">But Therion, eyes on the gray sky, says, "I've been here before. It's barren this time of year." He hunches under his cloak like he can already feel the cold. "Alfyn'll probably freeze to death. Didn't you bring a heavier cloak?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Cold doesn't really bother me," Alfyn says.</p>
<p class="p3">"You've been here before? Under what conditions?" Cyrus asks. Therion marches forward.</p>
<p class="p3">Cold and night and a freezing wind bothers them all. They huddle for warmth. It's not so cold that they should sacrifice their rest in favor of movement and warmth, but cold enough that digging out a cave and lying back to back under their cloaks doesn't stop shivers in the night. Come morning, they argue whether it's smarter to backtrack a half-day to Flamesgrace or press on. But the town's narrow passage sometimes gets snowed in, with the winds whipping through like knives, Therion says, so they press on.</p>
<p class="p3">The harsh snow gives way, tree by tree, to forest in winter. At least the forest blocks some wind, and gives them wood to strip and burn. Soon they come to a small forest village, which gives them a chance to replenish supplies, gather information, sit within warm walls. Cyrus chats happily with a local who turns out to have a vast store of knowledge about the local fauna, while Alfyn eases his way into the good graces of just about everyone in town; soon enough they've found their way into forest hospitality. Alfyn gives a small look to Therion, familiar by now to Cyrus, which hints that maybe he should not steal recreationally, since there'll be no reason to do so out of need.</p>
<p class="p3">The village chief tells them to stay in a cottage that lies empty while its occupant is away. While it does not have beds for them all, they are to be loaned bedrolls while their own are cleaned and patched. After thanking him profusely, Alfyn, with his insatiable curiosity, asks for the life story of the absent huntress. Near the end of the chief's tale, he begins to laugh in amazement.</p>
<p class="p3">"I don't mean to make light of her quest or nothing," he says, running a hand through his loose hair. "It sounds terrible and hard, and honestly if I could pull myself away I think I'd go running after to help, but—did you <em>hear</em> that, Therion?—that letter you mentioned made me—I just can't believe it!"</p>
<p class="p3">"You're certain that this letter didn't mention the name of the woman aiding your hunter?" Cyrus asks.</p>
<p class="p3">"Nay," the chief says, and even hands the letter over.</p>
<p class="p3">"I can't imagine... It'd be far too coincidental..." Cyrus mutters. The handwriting is careful and uniform but for the fault of the materials. The paper is cheap and the ink must have been on its last legs, for the letters break up here and there, but not beyond readability. Cyrus skims it eagerly.</p>
<p class="p3">"Too coincidental, what, for it <em>not</em> to be Primrose?" Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Everything about this is utterly unbelievable!" Cyrus says, scanning the words again. "She sets out to defeat a <em>dragon</em>, and before she goes—planning to fight it single-handedly—she meets a woman, a dancer, newly arrived to Stillsnow... Primrose, I can only assume, considering the rest of the letter, who offers to help slay the dragon in exchange for help of her own, and of course—of course!—they slay the dragon thanks to the dancer's extra<em>ord</em>inary skills with a dagger and dark magic," Cyrus says, glancing up with wonder and disbelief. "And now they're off to settle whatever this dancer is up to in town before they continue on together."</p>
<p class="p3">"It's definitely our Prim," Alfyn says with a huge grin.</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus shuffles the pages and shakes his head slowly with a small chuckle. "You left something out," he says.</p>
<p class="p3">The chief smiles stiffly. "I had thought to protecten her privacy, but as you are close with this dancer..."</p>
<p class="p3">"It seems that Primrose can't help but steal hearts wherever she goes... though perhaps it was an even trade." Cyrus grins at Therion, and holds the letter out. Rather than take the pages, Therion holds Cyrus's look.</p>
<p class="p3">"This huntress says they're—" Therion stops himself from being crude, and says, "together?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Not explicitly as such, but if you read between the lines, she's made it quite clear that she hopes to bring this dancer back to S'warkii when their quests are over," Cyrus says. The letter had turned poetic and thoughtful at the end—certainly not conclusive, but given the written word, Cyrus believes he's a bit better at picking up on small clues. Her grace and strength, the hunter says. Her eyes, as shining as her daggers.</p>
<p class="p3">"If they surviven their tasks," the chief says.</p>
<p class="p3">A grim thought, but one Cyrus had already considered, many times. There have been no close calls, not that he's conscious of, at the very least, but he <em>is</em> conscious of the danger that comes with something so simple as crossing the land on foot these days. Beasts have grown bold, and creatures aggressive. It doesn't take entering a nest of ratkin to provoke them, only the smell of humans in the air. Primrose's task—her quest for vengeance, her soul's only aim—has enough danger itself from hardened criminals, but from the sound of it, the huntress's task introduces an entirely new set of threats. If they surviven, indeed.</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus finds himself hoping that their paths all cross again, when perhaps he could lend his skills—but that is only hope, and for now he must focus on the journey in front of him, on the dangerous missing tome. The longer the tome is missing—and it has been missing for so long already—the greater a chance that the thief will unlock it, and release what darkness lies within its pages. What wretched secrets are they seeking? And when he finds them, how powerful will they be? He pushes away the thought of not surviving, and tries, as is his growing habit, to instead think of his companions: their strengths, their unfaltering aid in battle, and their surprising companionship on the long, slow road.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i wanted so badly for Primrose to stick around, but couldn't for the life of me justify the logistics. Primrose has some dudes to murder, bye.</p>
<p>on the other hand, she immediately meets a sexy huntress, so.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. from darkness to darkness</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p3">As they wind their way away from Bolderfall and up the cliffs, Therion works on spells with Cyrus, testing the unpredictable lightning at his fingertips, and trying to find comfort with the snap of ice. Cyrus is unfailingly positive but not blindly; his guidance adjusts through Therion's struggles without scolding, almost without Therion noticing.</p>
<p class="p3">The winds near Quarrycrest are cold and dry, colder than Therion is used to. Even Bolderfall hadn't had this level of chill in the air as they left. The mining town is higher in elevation, platforms and picks creeping up and up and up in search of minerals, and Cyrus says that means the air is thinner there, which he seems to think is related, though for once he doesn't actually expound on it. Therion notices no difference to the air. He breathes. How different can it get? It isn't humid. He thinks <em>thin air</em> is one of those things that scholars believe because of labored reasoning, but aren't actually true. Or at least not in any way that matters.</p>
<p class="p3">In town, Cyrus leaves to speak with his old friend Odette. Therion chooses to wait on a bridge that trembles under every passing footstep. He holds the highest rope, at chest level, and looks out, not down, across the broken earth. Birds in the distance soar from cliff to cliff like they'll collide with the rock, pulling up at the last to land, with a gracefully small tumble of rocks. They cling to invisible ledges, as do knobbly goats with fierce curved horns, and scraggly trees that barely seem alive, more like branches that have fallen and caught on a rock, and not yet realizing they've broken from the tree.</p>
<p class="p3">Next to Therion, Alfyn leans back against the rope guides like the bridge hangs over a gentle river, and he watches the people go by.</p>
<p class="p3">"These people look exhausted, but most of 'em seem excited too, why d'you think that is? Probably that they might find gold, huh. I guess I can see the appeal, but I don't think I'd make a good miner. How about you?" Alfyn asks, and pauses like he thinks Therion won't answer. (It's a very particular pause, one that goes along with not bothering to look at Therion.) Alfyn hasn't let him alone since they arrived. Therion is fully aware that Alfyn doesn't do with him what he does with everyone else he meets, since the man learned quickly that piles of genuinely interested questions did not, actually, coax anything out of Therion except sarcasm. So he knows that Alfyn is following him around having conversations about unrelated things, just in case there are five seconds in which Therion wants to talk; occasionally Alfyn drops in a question because Therion will answer if and when he wants to, though he has not, yet, wanted to answer any of Alfyn's sideways queries about Cordelia Ravus.</p>
<p class="p3">"Don't love the idea of crawling through caves, but I like finding the odd treasure," Therion says. Alfyn guffaws.</p>
<p class="p3">"You could pan for gold down in the stream," Alfyn suggests.</p>
<p class="p3">"And get my boots wet?"</p>
<p class="p3">Alfyn laughs again. Then he looks to the side, toward the path with the rickety steps that leads to Odette's place. "How long do you think this'll take?"</p>
<p class="p3">They go sit on the steps, a few paces up, to wait. They can just hear sounds from Odette's house, if the voices are raised. Hearing a woman's laughter makes the tension go out of Alfyn as he sits. It's only her laughter, though, so Therion assumes she's laughing <em>at</em> Cyrus, which isn't surprising.</p>
<p class="p3">"Hopefully this friend of his knows as much as he thinks she does," Alfyn says. "Then we can figure out where to head next."</p>
<p class="p3">"Wellspring. In the next few weeks," Therion says. He idly traces the rough edge of the bangle on his wrist. The cloth tied around it silences the clank of the loose chain, at least. He'd seen no reason to rush there from Bolderfall, mulling over what Heathcote had told him and what he knew of the place, but he can't put it off too long. "Or at least I will, or I'll miss the market."</p>
<p class="p3">"Ah, the next dragonstone."</p>
<p class="p3">"If you thought the tasks I did for Barham were distasteful, you may want to sit this one out," Therion says. "It's a thieves' market."</p>
<p class="p3">"You want us to sit it out?" Alfyn asks. Therion makes a face. He keeps tracing under the hard edge of the bangle with his fingers, and it isn't until Alfyn points that he even notices he's doing it. "Is it bothering you? We could probably slip more cloth around the whole thing."</p>
<p class="p3">"It'd be too tight," Therion says stiffly. Alfyn shrugs and leans back on the steps. Above them, Cyrus and Odette are now too quiet to hear over the murmur of the town all around. Therion eyes the people, but most of them look too ragged to be worth casing. With Alfyn refusing payment from any but the most insistent, it's not like they're flush, so he keeps looking. Then he thinks, well, should have swiped something from the Ravus mansion while he was there. The woman may have been robbed, and maybe she started to sell some of her family's collected wealth over the years, but there was plenty left. He glares at the bangle.</p>
<p class="p3">"Seriously, Therion, maybe there's a salve or somethin'—"</p>
<p class="p3">"No," Therion says. "Back in Bolderfall. The Ravus woman offered to take this off." Therion really doesn't need to look at Alfyn to know the face he's making, head jerked back in surprise, wide-eyed, mouth opening with the words he'll barely manage to hold back. "She was a fool to suggest it," Therion says to cut him off. "But I was an idiot to refuse. Dammit."</p>
<p class="p3">"Why did you?"</p>
<p class="p3">"I knew she was being a fool. This is her only guarantee I'll do her dirty work."</p>
<p class="p3">Alfyn leans forward, looking sideways at Therion. "So you were protecting her? Shucks, I'd almost think you had a heart."</p>
<p class="p3">"Ugh."</p>
<p class="p3">"Maybe even a little bit of feelings for her?"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion sits up so suddenly he hits his shoulder on the cliff beside him. The idea is so shocking that he can't respond at first, and manages to scoff before Cyrus's voice booms down from above them. "Boys! We have a mystery to solve!"</p>
<p class="p3">"Thank the gods," Therion mutters, standing.</p>
<p class="p3">"Hmm," Alfyn says.</p>
<p class="p3">"You're an idiot," Therion says, as Cyrus clatters down the stairs.</p>
<p class="p3">"You didn't say I'm wrong!"</p>
<p class="p3">"You're wrong," Therion says. Then he turns to Cyrus, who towers above them with a light in his eyes that makes him look disgustingly heroic. Therion asks, "What mystery?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Disappearances and likely scandalous wrongdoing! I must gather more information and scout out witnesses. If we split up, it will go faster. What do you say—we can work separately and meet in the tavern in a few hours?" Cyrus asks.</p>
<p class="p3">"Sure, but you'll have to fill in a few details first. Like what you're talking about and maybe what it has to do with the book," Alfyn says. Cyrus slaps a hand on each of their shoulders as he comes level with them.</p>
<p class="p3">"Ah, the <em>tome</em>. Odette is going to follow her own leads regarding the tome in exchange for my investigative skills, as applied to this particularly troubling problem," Cyrus says. As he explains the issue, he leads them down the stairs—and Therion decides that while he won't actively refuse to look into the missing locals, he certainly won't put himself out. Cyrus and Alfyn are plenty nosy enough. His talents have a better use. He's got a regret to make up for, and when they split up, he heads for richer grounds to fill his pockets.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p3"> </p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus vibrates with anticipation in the tavern, waiting for the others. They do not appear instantly at his desire, so he takes a deep breath and sits down with an ale. He can't help but turn his energy toward the room, transform the thrill of piecing together a mystery into finding mysteries in the mundane. What, he thinks, is the story of each person here? A miner. Oh, another miner. He takes a sip of ale.</p>
<p class="p3">They are all miners.</p>
<p class="p3">Perhaps he can unearth another layer, as they would chipping away in hopes of gold? He eyes one closely. He is a miner, of course, the dust in all the right places and the pick sticking out from his work pack. He wolfs down his food like he's worked hard. The tone of his skin says frostlands rather than local, but he's dark enough that it's clear he's been here a while. Cyrus rests his chin on his hand and tries not to stare while he theorizes, but that simply means looking around, then back.</p>
<p class="p3">Once, he looks back, and the man has moved. Gone for another drink. And in his movement, he has revealed someone who is not a miner.</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus leans forward. She's young. Dresses like a coastlands merchant, but not worn in. Occasionally glances up with a death glare, like she knows what it means for a young woman to be alone in a tavern and has figured out her best defense mechanism. When she's not glancing up, she pages through a book in front of her. Reading. No, searching for a blank page. No, both.</p>
<p class="p3">Of course there is a greater and more dangerous mystery, but Cyrus has been served well in the past by following his nose toward interesting people. Why, look where he is now. If he hadn't noticed Therion lifting a woman's purse with incredible skill, he never would've noticed him in the tavern later with Alfyn and Primrose. Or maybe he would've, but not as a talented thief, not as an odd grouping. Cyrus has excellent hunches.</p>
<p class="p3">"My friends," he says later, when the others appear at the tavern together. It's possible that Alfyn and Therion did very little sleuthing of their own; it is, after all, a particular set of skills that not everyone can develop. They don't look filled with the excitement of carrying clues, at least. Alfyn, perhaps, carries some gifts of local gossip, but all is well. Cyrus has everything they need. Cyrus waves them toward the table he is now sharing with the young lady. "Let me introduce you to—"</p>
<p class="p3">She pops up from her seat as they approach. "Tressa Colzione! Merchant at large! Dealmaker and treasure-spotter! I'm also handy with a bow and a touch of magic if I concentrate."</p>
<p class="p3">"And you need a babysitter?" Therion asks.</p>
<p class="p3">"I don't know, do you need a sock in the mouth?" Tressa shoots back. Therion raises an eyebrow, but he sits down.</p>
<p class="p3">"What's your story, Tressa Colzione?" Alfyn asks, joining the table as Tressa eases back into her seat. "I mean, other than merchant at large, et cetera."</p>
<p class="p3">"My folks run a shop back home, and I grew up helping out, like getting the merchandise, finding bargains. But it wasn't 'til I got my hands on this little treasure," she says, tapping the book in front of her, "that I realized I absolutely, posi<em>tive</em>ly had to head out and see the world for myself. So I am!"</p>
<p class="p3">"It's a travelogue from an unknown man, which she found on a merchant's ship—a former pirate, in fact," Cyrus says. He rather likes that tidbit. "So Tressa is following the travels as written, though I believe she has a little detour at the moment."</p>
<p class="p3">"Fascinating," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"It <em>is</em>," Alfyn says, genuinely. Cyrus had rather thought he might find Tressa's story appealing. He starts to pepper Tressa with questions, and she shoots answers (and some questions of her own) right back. While they talk, Cyrus leans toward Therion and asks if he found anything interesting during his sleuthing. Therion gives him a slow look that drips with disinterest.</p>
<p class="p3">"Well, if you frittered away the afternoon picking pockets, at least have the decency not to tell me about it. And please don't buy me a drink with your ill-gotten gains," Cyrus says, a fond scolding.</p>
<p class="p3">"Why would I do that?" Therion asks.</p>
<p class="p3">"You might," Cyrus says. "You've gotten rounds before. At least once."</p>
<p class="p3">"I meant I won't tell you."</p>
<p class="p3">"Won't tell me about the thievery, or won't tell me how you paid for a round of drinks?" Cyrus asks. Therion just stares at him, absolutely no shift in his expression, and there's little he can do at this point to coax more out of the thief, so he gives in with a grin. "Well! I learned a great deal this afternoon, and I'd rather like to cut our meeting here down to mere replenishment and act on the information I've gathered."</p>
<p class="p3">"This isn't mere replenishment," Therion says, barely gesturing at the gabbing pair.</p>
<p class="p3">"She may help," Cyrus says. "If she trusts you. And if you trust her."</p>
<p class="p3">Therion nods. His attention turns to Alfyn and Tressa. The easy part is settled—Alfyn took to Tressa, and she to him, and they have moved on from talks of their hopes of seeing the world and travels thus far to comparing small hometowns.</p>
<p class="p3">Introducing Therion into the mix is, for Cyrus, rather like an early experiment his tutor led him through in his brief alchemical studies: given an unknown material, Cyrus was to mix it into, simply, water. Without a warning, the first time, his tutor had given him a particularly reactive component, leading to sudden sparking, a brief flame, and a small cloud of smoke, all of which made Cyrus tumble backward over his bench. The next material simply sank to the bottom. Eventually he learned, of course, what the materials were, and how to identify them and their reactions to other components—enough to prevent explosions and burns, at least—but for that day, he didn't know what would happen. Cyrus has theories of how Therion and Tressa will react, and, based on their brief exchange, he leans toward a more hopeful conclusion and doubts there will be an explosion.</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">❈</span>
</p>
<p class="p3">The facts are always a lot neater in Cyrus's head than the results end up.</p>
<p class="p3">The tidy alignment of clues: people missing in town; all last seen in the same area; disused sewers. It seems so clear that he's surprised Odette didn't see it. Standing in front of the poorly blocked-off entrance, Tressa gives voice to Cyrus's very thought.</p>
<p class="p3">"Why the heck haven't they already looked here?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Perhaps it's like looking for the pen that sits behind your ear," Cyrus says. "So close and obvious you simply can't see it yourself."</p>
<p class="p3">"Is that a footprint?" Therion asks under his breath as they enter. Cyrus only sees scuffed up dirt, but doesn't doubt Therion's keen eyes.</p>
<p class="p3">The facts are simple, and the solution, too. Innocent people vanished into a network of underground tunnels. Unfortunately, that only raises more questions as they creep along the narrow walkways. Who took them? Did they have something in common? An enemy? A debt? Why would they vanish so completely?</p>
<p class="p3">An answer—not so vanished—spawns more questions—Why would someone torture this many people? Why torture anyone?</p>
<p class="p3">Alfyn's inspection, with horror and confusion—Why would their blood be drained?</p>
<p class="p3">And Therion, moving a tarp spread on the stones—What is this complex symbol on the floor?</p>
<p class="p3">All of this, Cyrus transmutes into his usual scholarly distance and resolve (or else, what would he do? Let his blood run cold, give into nausea that would turn him inside out, tremble into a useless puddle that could save no lives at all?) and forces the answers and expanding mysteries into clean lines of inquiry. Further avenues of research, like: Gideon, a scholar, <em>employed</em> to create bloodstones from the blood of those tortured souls, from a copy—a <em>copy</em>—of <em>From the Far Reaches of Hell</em>. Employed by whom? A copy made by whom? And where oh where is the original?</p>
<p class="p3">They saved one girl, still breathing, heart beating. One. One girl, and a new sea of uncertainty.</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">❈</span>
</p>
<p class="p3">All of them take the night to rest and dream and try to console themselves over what they'd seen in the sewers. They had, perhaps, all seen worse. Cyrus thinks at least an apothecary and a man who grew up on the streets had. Cyrus tucks the horrors away into the book of his mind. And he knows that Alfyn sits up with Tressa for a while, but she is hardly a wilting flower.</p>
<p class="p3">In the morning, Cyrus is still weary. But he has a purpose, at least. He has a destination, after talking to Odette about bookbinding. That is something. They had argued over the next steps, but it seemed clear that Therion's dragonstones were more important than Tressa's idle quest with her anonymous notebook, and Wellspring is on the way to Stonegard, anyway. Losing that argument to Therion, of all people (though not explosive, their relationship is not quite as genial as Cyrus might hope), left her a little petulant, but her temperament can't stay sour for long. Before they leave, Tressa hears tell of a nearby mine that was abandoned years before, and, she says, it may well still have the half-extracted ores from the rocks. Therion gives her far more respectful attention than he has up to this point.</p>
<p class="p3">"Why was it abandoned?" Cyrus asks.</p>
<p class="p3">"This town was kind of taken over by a jerk for a while. He probably closed it down," Tressa says. "He's out of the picture, though."</p>
<p class="p3">Ever a teacher, Cyrus focuses on her uncertainty. "Probably?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Shouldn't whoever dug that ore out get first claim on it?" Alfyn asks.</p>
<p class="p3">"They left it behind," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Look, the person who told me said it wasn't because of a collapse or anything. Heck, maybe they're wrong about there being gold, and it was abandoned 'cause it was just exhausted, but isn't it worth a look?" Tressa says. She turns and walks backward, facing the three of them and meeting each of their gazes in turn.</p>
<p class="p3">"If we hear even a hint of a creaking board—" Cyrus says.</p>
<p class="p3">"It'd delay us," Alfyn says, looking at Therion. But Tressa and Therion are already grinning at each other. "We don't <em>need</em> the gold."</p>
<p class="p3">"Alfyn, you're the only one who thinks that," Tressa says. She stops him on the path with a hand on each arm, and looks up at him. Despite her small stature, it's clear who's taking charge in this moment. "Despite your good cheer and your insistence that everything'll work out, those medicines you hand out cost money sometimes, and there's only so much food even <em>you</em> can forage or beg for, I guess, I don't really know <em>how</em> you managed to feed yourself before. If you don't let us occasionally fill our coffers again so we can sleep out of the rain, I swear to the gods, Alfyn, I will start to charge your patients after you leave the room."</p>
<p class="p3">Alfyn looks properly stricken.</p>
<p class="p3">"Alfyn," Tressa says. "Do we need the gold?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Yes," Alfyn sighs.</p>
<p class="p3">The entrance to the mine is only partly blocked off, as though others had snuck in before them. But the frame is sturdy, and inside seems more dusty than dangerous. Cyrus is going to suggest they turn back after a minute or two of snooping, believing that their predecessors have cleaned out the place, when Therion tips over a bucket and dirty, encrusted gold spills out with a clatter.</p>
<p class="p3">"See!" Tressa exclaims, just before a bony humanoid creature tumbles out of the shadows toward them. "Whoopsie!" she says, just as excited, and blows the thing to pieces with a hurricane gale. She turns to Cyrus with a hand on her hip. "Well, that's manageable enough."</p>
<p class="p3">"Mm-hmm," he says, because he's still not convinced of why the mine was abandoned.</p>
<p class="p3">As they proceed deeper into the mine, the creatures grow more strange and horrifying—not like oversized animals they had seen before, but untoward <em>things</em> given animation and hunger. Weeping pus and rattling skeletons, masses of fungus stretching and creeping. There is a thickness to the air, and though they light torches along the way, the darkness doesn't seem to fully abate. All around, constant and echoing, is the sound of dripping.</p>
<p class="p3">At the heart of the mine, Therion spots a pile of what seem to be tarps, and after careful inspection, strips the cover back to reveal chests that glimmer with the promise of treasure. Just as he brings a handful of coin to Tressa, an odor wafts on the air, with the ghost of a movement in the shadows.</p>
<p class="p3">It is unrecognizable as any creature or fungus or plant endowed with animalistic life. It is unnameable. It is a mess of fleshy sprouting tunnels with mouths at every gaping end, of eyes peeking out between fissures in the skin, of tentacles covered in thorns and dangling claws at their ends, of wet, monstrous nightmares that Cyrus is unlikely to forget even if given ten lifetimes. Twice as tall as Cyrus, the monstrosity slides against the mine floor, creeping out of the shadows, uncannily silent. As though to match its silence, none of them give a swaggering comment as they often might. Tressa, next to Cyrus, grips her polearm with white knuckles and stays light on her feet. He can hear her muttering half-spells, whether practice or habit or preparation, he doesn't know. Maybe it's to keep from being sick.</p>
<p class="p3">"More coming!" Alfyn shouts.</p>
<p class="p3">More of the same? Cyrus clenches his jaw; perhaps he'll simply be overwhelmed with the sight and unable to feel more horror, for there must be an upper limit—he hopes. But instead these are a new minor horror, each a cluster of wet flesh supported by hard, spidery limbs, clacking their way across the rock.</p>
<p class="p3">The way they fight together is practiced, intuitive; at least they have that. Cyrus knows what to shout if Therion is in the way of his magic. Alfyn senses when to come swinging with his axe. Even Tressa has slotted in smoothly, blasting her wind magic or setting one of the others up with a particularly cutting opening to attack. It is no beautiful dance, nothing Cyrus would want to do except in this necessity, but it has its thrills. And if they can rid the world of these monsters, all the better. (Still, he has moments of breathlessly thinking: are there <em>more</em> monsters than there used to be? Have they grown in aggression?)</p>
<p class="p3">One of the spidery creatures lunges toward Cyrus; with a hiss it releases something like dust, so fine that Cyrus barely sees the cloud as it rushes toward him. A tingling spreads across his face. He feels it like a splash of hot water, a gust of snowy wind—a brief and minor sensation to brush aside; he readies himself to parry with his staff except he is startled by the way the world sways and contracts when he turns. It isn't dizziness. He is steady as ever. He holds his staff high, licks his lips and thinks of a spell—perhaps these monsters will be subdued better by ice than by fire—but he cannot find them, he cannot <em>find </em>any of them in front of him. Cyrus blinks and turns, swings his head this way and that, and the scene only gets darker. Like a cloud passing over the entire world. He doesn't dare take a step. The battle rages around him. Still he stands ready for the fight. The start of an icy blast spills from his lips and fades to a whisper as he realizes he doesn't know where his own companions are. If he yells for them to clear for a blast, and none of them are there—would the monsters realize? Did they already realize? Do they know he cannot see? He feels a wetness on his face, and can't tell if it's sweat or tears or blood from all the needling spores. Cyrus sucks in a panicked breath and tries to focus—this will wear off, he tells himself. Therion had experienced the blinding spit of a creature weeks before. Therion said it was starting to clear by the time the creatures were dead, by the time Alfyn had come to him. Therion said. But this is a different creature, and cuts across his face; perhaps, Cyrus thinks, perhaps destroying his eyes; perhaps they're spores digging into his head, deeper and deeper, making it permanent. Cyrus cannot take a breath deeper than a gasp. He sways on his feet, in the dark.</p>
<p class="p3">"Help," he says, as loud as he can, a whisper. "Help."</p>
<p class="p3">Fights sound ugly. The overpowering sound is that of flesh colliding, and the grunting of effort. The wet sound of injury. Of dying groans. The solid, stomach-turning <em>thunk</em> of a weapon connecting with muscle, the <em>shlup</em> of a weapon withdrawing from guts to strike again. He can pick out their voices, Therion and Alfyn and Tressa, yelling around him, wordlessly and sometimes in short bursts. He gets a sense that the fight is not desperate, that so long as he can stay out of trouble, they will all be fine, and for a moment, he finds space in his lungs.</p>
<p class="p3">He is a fool.</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus thought that he could wait out the battle, unnoticed in his vulnerability. If he couldn't shout for help, he could be still as a shadow and survive. But stillness means nothing, when a battle rages.</p>
<p class="p3">There is a <em>shlup</em>. It comes from his body.</p>
<p class="p3">He never thought a wound could hurt so much, so immediately. He is voiceless with the pain. Something has ripped at him, torn his flesh enough that he can't identify the wound. He can't, by sensation, tell where it starts or ends.</p>
<p class="p3">After a moment, he can feel the blood.</p>
<p class="p3">When his knees start to shake and he stumbles forward, he drops into a foul-smelling miasma. The thick fug of air makes him gasp and gasp again, instinctively, desperately, sucking in more of the sourness and nothing of what he needs, nothing of life and breath and air, and he doesn't know if he's alive or dead, cannot see to know if he is standing or prone, cannot breathe enough to shout for help or even whisper for it not even whisper a name or a hope and with the shape of a name on his silent lips he is falling he is falling into the dark—</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>sorry</p>
<p>also, G R O S S: <a>https://octopathtraveler.fandom.com/wiki/Manymaws</a></p>
<p>the original idea for this moment was spurred by a different sidequest boss killing the heck out of me many times, but the location/timing didn't work for this story, so i was gleefully able to work this disgusting lovecraftian nightmare in</p>
<p>(posted a few days earlier than expected because it was rainy today and i felt like it)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. subtler arts than the blade</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p3">Cyrus is not dead.</p>
<p class="p3">Not yet. Underneath anything else that Therion is thinking or doing in Clearbrook, there is that refrain: Cyrus is not dead yet.</p>
<p class="p3">He's also not awake, but that's one thought too many for Therion to handle just now. It was a frantic two-day journey from the mine to Clearbrook. It would normally take them nearly four days, but needs must and between Alfyn's weird inherent charm and Tressa's ability to barter, they found a fast carriage and a driver willing to push the horses hard, so here they were in Clearbrook where Alfyn could do more than desperately keep Cyrus from immediately dying.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion has very little memory of any of this.</p>
<p class="p3">Certain moments stand out to him—moments he is reluctant to dwell on—but between hearing the wet approach of the monster in the mine and arriving in Clearbrook, most things are... blurry. The adrenaline of a horrifying monster towering over them. The chaos of the fight. Then: a high-pitched ringing in his ears amid stillness, the only commotion coming from some yards away where Alfyn and Tressa and Cyrus were strangely grouped, and frantically quiet. That is a moment that is clear to Therion, like a still lake, if distant. It could have happened to someone else. Could've been told to him after. Some moments <em>were</em> told to him after, but this one just feels like it, when he stood there in the silence, the ringing in his ears fading but not disappearing. The world was too bright, and then it flickered back to the gloom of the mine. Therion breathed. He felt ill. He felt intensely, exhaustingly ill. When he turned, his movements came with a trembling deep in his muscles, but it didn't shake his limbs. Deeper than that. With aching slowness in the dim cave, he remembered seeing one of the mouths of the creature stretch toward Cyrus and come away bloody, and Cyrus's wide, unseeing eyes as he reeled. Therion remembers, even now, the way that Cyrus seemed to go loose, like something deep within him had been undone. And then the creature, the unsettling demon creation that could not have been made by any of the Twelve, reached for Cyrus again and expelled a dark cloud, enveloping half his body as he fell, even as Therion started to run. Therion remembers all this like it is very, very distant, because if it were any closer he doesn't know what would happen. In that first moment, the one when he saw the attack and his entire body was set aflame, he still doesn't know what happened.</p>
<p class="p3">But afterward, his ears rang and the mine was still.</p>
<p class="p3">Afterward, he took a stumbling step toward Alfyn, and saw that the apothecary wasn't moving in panic. He was stern and serious, but he was directing Tressa and he had bandages by his side and took no notice of the blood and so Therion, shamefully, looked away.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion needed, in that moment, to find water to wash away all the blood and unidentifiable gunk—from his daggers, at least, if he couldn't fully wash it from the rest of him. He stripped his cloak and threw it to the side. Underneath, his clothes were spattered but decent, except for his sleeves, horribly dyed. He plunged his hands into the water and rubbed his daggers clean one by one. It took time. He scraped at muck of unknown substance—blood? membrane? mucus? spores?—in unexpected places, clinging to the engravings in the hilt. The muck grew stiff in the freezing water and came away in flecks and strips. By the time he tried to scrub his forearms clean, he couldn't feel his hands.</p>
<p class="p3">In Clearbrook, Therion sits against the side of the house where Cyrus and Alfyn and a man named Zeph are. Tressa is off searching for some rare ingredient. Therion stares at his hands, which are clean, of course they are, but he's felt strange ever since the mine. This, here, right now, this is his brief moment to grow unsettled by the sensations inside him and the things he doesn't remember, before he knocks on the door. Until he knows if Cyrus is alive or dead, it doesn't matter what else happened in the mine.</p>
<p class="p3">He knocks on Alfyn's door. He listens. He brings back food and drink. He sits, inside, at the far end of the house. The other end, which he has a clear view of, holds a bed, a chair, and a table. The chair is filled with Alfyn just now, and the table with pouches and bottles and a mortar and pestle in which Zeph grinds something slowly. Cyrus is a body in the bed, always unconscious, a pale face shining with salve and dark hair loose on the pillow.</p>
<p class="p3">Things are quieter than they were earlier. After a while, Alfyn leaves Zeph next to Cyrus and comes toward Therion. There's a brief hesitation, then Alfyn sits next him, not saying anything, slumped against the wall, quiet for once. Alfyn has an air of building up to something, except that Alfyn falls asleep, there on the floor. After some time, he snorts himself awake. Therion hasn't moved. Across the house, Zeph has barely moved next to Cyrus, except to occasionally touch his chest, his arm. Therion imagines that Cyrus's skin is cool. Too cool. Therion crosses his arms tight over his chest. Or maybe he's clammy with fever, hair sticking to his skin. Therion has no skill at tending the wounded, not like a true apothecary, but if he had to... He imagines being by Cyrus's bedside, cooling his fever with a compress, carefully cleaning his wounds, and the idea fills him with nausea and longing. He can't bear it. He rubs his face, hard, until his vision swims with dots. He can't bear imagining those wounds he already saw.</p>
<p class="p3">Alfyn stirs, and stretches, hugely, like he doesn't know his own size, and Therion thinks that he probably doesn't. Therion draws a steady breath.</p>
<p class="p3">"If you need to head off to that market, it's okay," Alfyn says. "I know there's a timing thing. And this is... I won't pretend like I don't want you around. This is my home, you know, I don't <em>need</em> another pair of hands, but we're a sort of team after everything and it's good to have you here. But if you need to go, go."</p>
<p class="p3">Therion doesn't say anything, and soon enough, Alfyn dozes again.</p>
<p class="p2">❈</p>
<p class="p3">One evening, Therion is an hour outside of Clearbrook, sitting above the mouth of the river and throwing stones into the current. He thinks about Noblecourt. He got his daggers back, and continued with Cyrus anyway. He kept the pendant around his neck, hidden under his shirt while he fetched nonsense for Barham that turned out to not be nonsense. At the time he was flatly unsurprised. Scholars never explain themselves, not to Therion. They ignore, order around, lecture, pedantically correct. Though the man berated him and ignored his questions, Therion brought this and that to the scholar until Barham put them together to make a key. Exactly what Therion needed to hunt down the dragonstone—which Barham could easily have explained from the start. Therion is retroactively annoyed on a whole new level, certain from a few short weeks of lessons that Cyrus would never have bossed him around and outright dismissed his questions. But that isn't entirely what he's thinking about.</p>
<p class="p3">"You're a natural born researcher, boy," Barham had said with a scowl, though there was the faintest whiff of sincerity in his words. Remembering it now, Therion bristles against it. He isn't. He isn't. If he is, then there is too much he's missed. He hurls the next stone into the water with a shout, and the active current, swirling into the bay, hides most of the splash. He rubs his shoulder. A bit overextended on that throw. Enough, enough. Therion sees the angle of the light and decides it's past time to head back. He has almost an hour's walk down the river. An hour for him to dwell on all the years he was fighting to survive. An hour for him to feel the fire in the tattoo on his hand, and the weight of a god's hand on his neck. During their lessons Cyrus had said things to him, too, about being a quick study, about learning fast, his attentiveness. But what's the point now?</p>
<p class="p3">Outside of Alfyn's house, he doesn't hear any commotion through the door, and thinks—either everything is as it was, or Cyrus is dead.</p>
<p class="p3">Without knocking, he enters. Cyrus is on the bed asleep, as he was. Zeph is not there, as usual after night falls, and Alfyn is in the chair by the bed. Alfyn has never looked worse. He might look worse than Cyrus does. At least Cyrus rests, and isn't staring at nothing with exhausted, haunted eyes. At the sound of the door closing, Alfyn glances over, then startles a moment later when he actually sees Therion.</p>
<p class="p3">"You're back," Alfyn says.</p>
<p class="p3">"I was only along the river," Therion said. Yes, he was gone for hours, and it's night now, but. But how could he leave? He holds out a half-full bag. "You said there should be noxroot by the banks, and that you might need more."</p>
<p class="p3">"I did? I did. I was saying that to myself, to go look when I could get away." Alfyn doesn't reach out, so Therion steps closer and drops the bag by the table, which is covered in the trappings of an apothecary at work. It's clear that Alfyn never got away, possibly never left this room. There's no evidence of food, so Therion takes Alfyn by the shirtfront and yanks him up out of the chair. If Alfyn bothered to resist, Therion wouldn't be able to do this, but the man comes along like a doll as Therion drags him toward the door.</p>
<p class="p3">"I need to keep watch," Alfyn protests, but the man is too damn tired to resist.</p>
<p class="p3">"You need to eat and sleep," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion shoves him through the door, as Alfyn says, "He could have another fit."</p>
<p class="p3">"Then I'll come running. Stay in the tavern, or take my room at the inn so I know where to find you," Therion says. "Gods, I can't believe Zeph left you like this. What a friend, huh."</p>
<p class="p3">"Hey, that ain't fair!" Alfyn says. "Besides, he didn't know... I told him... I said I was fine. He's got to take care of Nina." Alfyn leans against the door frame, and his eyes drift back into the dim house, so Therion turns him toward the path and shoves him.</p>
<p class="p3">"Don't need another pair of hands, my ass," Therion says to his back. Alfyn waves in acknowledgement, and keeps walking toward the tavern.</p>
<p class="p3">For a long time, the night growing closer and closer to midnight-dark, to no-moon dark, Therion stays in the doorway. Everything about his posture looks like he's watching the town, but as much of himself as can stand it is attuned to the inside of the house. Alfyn doesn't come stumbling back right away, so he assumes the man fell asleep in his dinner, which is fine. There is no sudden movement inside the house, no gasp of breath or moan of distress, so Therion waits. Soon the village is sleeping and dark, even the tavern. A town that truly goes to sleep. How novel. Faint lights remain in a few windows, but when yet another of those fades with no sign of Alfyn, Therion decides that he must have gone to the inn for a proper rest, and he closes the door.</p>
<p class="p3">Inside the house, Therion lights a second lamp. Cyrus is pale, even in the warm light, and redness like a rash covers half his face. His chest is a too-large lump of bandages underneath the blanket.</p>
<p class="p3">In the dancing lamplight, in this quiet, time stops having meaning. Seconds or hours could go by between Therion's movements, and his thoughts alternately race and halt, giving no sense of the night passing. The creak when he shifts in the chair. How heavy the pendant of Alephan is, and how long he's been wearing it—how does it give him this power, or does it, is it the confidence to try, has it been just him and Cyrus all along—should he take it off like he does every night, or is it okay, has he been paranoid this whole time? He stretches against stiffness. Takes the pendant from his pocket. He stutters on one thought: maybe this needs to stop. The pendant is quiet and light in his palm. He dangles the necklace from his fingers, then plays with the loop of chain, testing his own dexterity and warding off the boredom of keeping watch. And then he freezes: was it the lamplight that gave the illusion of Cyrus moving? Therion exhales and goes back to manipulating the chain, making shapes, switching fingers, but now he doesn't look down. His eyes are on Cyrus, and Cyrus's eyes flutter.</p>
<p class="p3">At first, Cyrus only blinks his eyes open. Not looking at anything. Then his head moves a fraction to the side, toward Therion. The lamplight is unsteady and low, but Therion has adjusted to the dark and he's certain that Cyrus is really looking. Really seeing him. Awake, for a moment. That he's going to live. His lips move, but whether a reflex, a dry mouth, or trying to speak is impossible to tell.</p>
<p class="p3">"I bet you're trying to talk, since you always are, but don't," Therion says quietly. "It's night. Rest. The last thing you need is to get worked up lecturing me on the uses of poison throughout history."</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus's face twitches, a weak smile. Therion can't look away, as long as Cyrus's eyes are open, because what if he does need something, or his pain spikes? Therion would need to see it in his face. So that's why he locks eyes with Cyrus. That's why his fingers still, and he lets one of the lamps burn down, until Cyrus is fully asleep again.</p>
<p class="p3">Before dawn, Alfyn comes stumbling in with two bowls cradled in the crook of his arm to find Therion sharpening Alfyn's axe.</p>
<p class="p3">"Oh, come on," Alfyn says, shoving one of the bowls at Therion as he grabs for his axe. "You'll hurt yourself in this light."</p>
<p class="p3">"What was I supposed to do, whittle?" Therion asks, letting Alfyn make the trade. The bowl is filled with barley porridge.</p>
<p class="p3">"Nothing happened?"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion inspects the porridge diligently, as though expecting something unfortunate to surface. "Nope," he says.</p>
<p class="p3">Alfyn sighs. "Good, I guess. I was hoping he'd be coming 'round soon."</p>
<p class="p3">"Hey," Therion says, standing. He claps Alfyn on the shoulder, a move that Alfyn usually does to him. "Maybe he was waiting for you. I wouldn't be nearly as happy."</p>
<p class="p3">"Heh. Well, thanks for making me take a break. I guess I was pretty rough, if you shoved me out," Alfyn says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Sure." Therion raises the bowl. "I've gotta get out of here. I'll be in the yard or something."</p>
<p class="p3">Or something.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion walks through the village aimlessly. He's not hungry, but whenever he finally stops, he'll eat the cold porridge. He's not one to waste food. But he's been feeling so strange the past few days that he doesn't trust himself entirely—not to get hungry, not to grow tired, not to notice any of the signals that would usually scream at him. He's completely skipped sleep twice; once because it didn't occur to him to lay down, and this night because he had better things to do. The sky is lightening as he finds himself near some steps that lead to a raised area, and he sits, facing the cloudy sunrise. Mechanically, he eats the porridge, spoonful after spoonful, tasting nothing, until out of nowhere he pictures Cyrus in the back of a carriage, insensate and moaning, Alfyn's hands holding a bandage in place over a wound that oozes fresh blood from the thrashing that pain or poison or madness is causing in Cyrus.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion hears the thunk of the bowl hitting a rock before he realizes he's thrown it.</p>
<p class="p3">He's seen worse than this. He's experienced worse than this. Why should he act like this now? He rubs his thigh hard, pressing into the muscle like it's a bad morning and the old break is acting up. Or hoping it would hurt again. Instead, his palm runs over the shape of a pendant on a chain.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p3"> </p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus is not oblivious to how the others all take turns with him. Even Tressa, and Alfyn's friend, Zeph. Even Zeph's little sister has a brief, silent shift when Zeph is pulled away. Not that they outright call them shifts, but that's what it is. Always someone around to watch Cyrus. Of course he knows he was badly hurt, but their monitoring truly makes it sink in, more than the slow bleary hours of coming back to consciousness, more than the litany of pains that he can't stop reciting to himself. They must be scared of something that has already happened, and could happen again. He sees how Tressa checks things that she didn't used to know to check, and offers to apply a salve when he scratches his healing face. Still, they keep a pretense of natural rhythms, letting visits overlap, making excuses to come and go.</p>
<p class="p3">Only Therion is different, and Cyrus is glad of it. During the day, Therion is nowhere to be found, but appears in the evening to kick the others out, as though they need him to remind them to go have dinner; by the time Cyrus observes this, it seems to be routine: Therion appears, mumbles something about Alfyn not knowing enough to go feed himself, and the room clears out. Therion appears, rolls his eyes at Tressa and Alfyn arguing over material cost, and the room clears out.</p>
<p class="p3">Each night Cyrus feels magnitudes better than the night before, which means he can sit up without help by the third night that he's awake. Or maybe the fourth night. He's had patches of wakefulness here and there, and patches of lucid dreaming, so his sense of time is altered. Alfyn said that they've been in Clearbrook six days all together.</p>
<p class="p3">When Therion forces everyone out on what may well be Cyrus's fourth (third) night awake, Alfyn is the last to trail out after Tressa and Zeph and also, of course, Zeph's sister (who Cyrus couldn't name if you gave him ten chances, which wasn't helped by the fact that no matter how long she stood staring, she never brought herself to speak in his presence). Since Cyrus was markedly better, the afternoon had morphed into a more casual gathering, the apothecaries' satisfaction with his progress coloring the whole mood. With Alfyn calling back one last time about the sleeping draught he left for Cyrus, Therion shuts the door. In bed, Cyrus's left hand rests on his lap in a loose fist, and his right hand cups a drink.</p>
<p class="p3">"Couldn't you bring dinner here for everyone, and we could eat together?" Cyrus asks. But he exhales with relief at the quiet.</p>
<p class="p3">"You're delirious. Not making any sense. What a shame," Therion says. Cyrus smirks, because he knows that even a small laugh will ache, and he's tired of aching. Therion sets down the basket he's brought, and sorts through the contents. He takes the cup from Cyrus to hand him a deep bowl, which is half-filled with sticky rice, roasted-soft vegetables, and small cubes of meat. Nothing he's likely to spill. Nothing difficult to eat. Cyrus wonders if this is Alfyn's guidance for what he ought to eat, or if the others have all noticed that he has trouble with his left hand. He's been trying to mask it.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion crosses his legs in the chair, settling in with his own bowl. Even while eating, Cyrus is starting to flag, but he's determined to stay alert longer than the night before. Taking those spoonfuls, chewing the meat, it's all more of an effort than he'd like. He takes breaks every few spoonfuls, and acts like they're not breaks. He will absolutely not let anyone feed him again.</p>
<p class="p3">"Tell me," he says, his spoon at rest. "The wound on my face, the blinding one. Do you think it will scar?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Afraid you'll lose your charm with the ladies?"</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus leans his head against the wall and tries not to laugh. "That, I would welcome."</p>
<p class="p3">"No luck there. A scar would only make you dangerous and mysterious. Trust me," Therion says, sweeping his hair out of his eyes to show off the scars that Cyrus often forgets are there. Thin strokes across his brow and cheek, a harsh counterpoint to his young face. "You'd have to ask Alfyn, but eh. I don't think that'll scar."</p>
<p class="p3">"Mm." Cyrus doesn't ask about anything else that might scar. He prods at his food, ready for another few bites, but Therion speaks again.</p>
<p class="p3">"That blinded you? In the middle of battle?" Therion asks. Cyrus only nods. "Shit. No wonder."</p>
<p class="p3">"No wonder?"</p>
<p class="p3">"That you got hit head-on like that after. Gods." Therion shakes his head, but doesn't go on. Cyrus tries to think of something other than the battle. He has seen only these four walls for days, and only today realized he was recuperating in Alfyn's own home. So he looks for something interesting, and finds a pair of small charcoal portraits on a nearby wall. A woman and a man, somewhat faded. He studies them for a while. Clearly Alfyn's parents, when they were young. He sees the wild hair tamed in the woman, and the broad shoulders and sharp eyebrows in the man. Neither portrait smiles, so he isn't sure who Alfyn takes after more, not without seeing which has the easy grin and the soothing way. He hasn't seen either of them around.</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus eats more. It's an impossible task, to not think of the battle.</p>
<p class="p3">"Thank you, by the way. I hear that you're the reason we made it out of that mine," Cyrus says.</p>
<p class="p3">"What's that mean?"</p>
<p class="p3">A rush of annoyance comes over Cyrus. "What does it—I don't know, Therion, I was slightly preoccupied by dying. But the impression I received from the way that Alfyn and Tressa spoke of it, they were quite busy tending to me while the worst of the monsters—" and here, Cyrus involuntarily grimaces against a sick feeling, "while it still rampaged. If not for you, one or both of them would have been pulled away to fight, and perhaps I—Perhaps none of us would have walked away."</p>
<p class="p3">This is the worst that Cyrus has ever expressed himself. Failing at gratitude, failing to evoke how scared Tressa sounded while talking about it, failing to say anything right to Therion, who has stiffened.</p>
<p class="p3">"I simply wanted to say thank you, for having our backs. Even if it was only so you, too, could get out alive," Cyrus says, giving up. Therion stares at him, unreadable. No gratitude needed, perhaps. Therion is always difficult to predict. Sometimes they connect in a lesson, sometimes Therion gets frustrated and storms out. Sometimes he joins in a conversation over dinner, sometimes he sulks in the shadows. Cyrus doesn't understand why the vacillations, but he tries to be patient. He tries. Right now, he is too tired. "Never mind."</p>
<p class="p3">"No, I meant that I don't remember what—"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion cuts himself short at the sound of the door opening. It's Alfyn, with a packet of food in hand. He stands awkwardly for a moment, while Cyrus gapes at Therion. "The tavern was a little much for me tonight. Mind if I stick around?"</p>
<p class="p3">They both stare at him, truly confused, and not just at the interruption.</p>
<p class="p3">"I know! I know. I'll check myself for fever. I'm tuckered out, is all. I figured I'd eat, then call it an early night," Alfyn says, thumbing toward a bedroll in the corner.</p>
<p class="p3">"Alfyn," Therion says. He has a nervous look in his eyes, but his voice stays steady. "Can I talk to you?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Sure," he says. Therion stands, as Alfyn walks farther into the room. "Oh, can't we talk here?"</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus reaches toward Therion, and regrets it. He winces at a sting that radiates through his torso. Perhaps the pain makes his voice sound sharper than he means. "Don't be foolish, Therion. What reason could you have for leaving?"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion shoves his bowl into a space on the table, making things clank against each other. "I'm gonna ask him about it. Really ask him. You want to hear all the details?"</p>
<p class="p3">"I sincerely doubt that anything that could've occurred would provoke worse nightmares in me."</p>
<p class="p3">For a moment, that seems to jar the other two. Therion settles back into his seat, and Alfyn slowly sinks to the floor. He cradles his packet of food in his hand and looks up at each of them in turn, like he's trying to decide whether to pursue the nightmares or the unspoken question. Finally he simply unwraps the paper and starts in on a sandwich. Therion clears his throat, then exhales, crossing and recrossing his arms. Cyrus almost finds the stalling funny, except that he can tell how uncomfortable Therion is.</p>
<p class="p3">"Look," Therion finally says. "You gotta tell me what happened in the mine."</p>
<p class="p3">Alfyn swallows a bite too fast and chokes out, "What?"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion shrugs. "I don't remember all the details, exactly."</p>
<p class="p3">"Shoot, Therion, if you hit your head—"</p>
<p class="p3">"I didn't." Therion takes a breath. "That's not—I didn't hit my head."</p>
<p class="p3">"What do you remember?" Alfyn asks carefully, setting down his food.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion fidgets with his scarf, pressing it over his mouth, then pulling it away again. "The monsters coming out of the shadows. That disgusting—thing—all the mouths—" Therion stops, his mouth twisting with nausea. Cyrus clenches his jaw, too. "Most of the fight. Hacking it with my sword, and—turning to see it attack Cyrus. I remember seeing him go down. And the thing was still on him. It—I saw you running toward him, and—I think Tressa took your axe and knocked it back? I remember seeing Cyrus fall. Like a dead body," Therion says, his voice rising and falling throughout, choking off with uncertainty, then steadying. Flattening. He says, "I remember when it was quiet again, and cleaning my blades. I remember being here."</p>
<p class="p3">He stares at his hands and seems to be done. Cyrus can't see his face, with the way he's leaning forward. He wishes he could. He looks toward Alfyn instead, to find a strange expression of pain and what he has to call love on the man's face. Alfyn nods a little. When he speaks, it's with the same certainty that greeted Cyrus when he finally woke—a steady rock mixed with all the empathy in the world, and absolutely no pity. Cyrus had felt that a great comfort, for pity or worry would have made him feel as though he were, in fact, dying, and perhaps that would have made him crash back into oblivion. Instead, Alfyn is gentle without coddling. It is no wonder he is a great apothecary.</p>
<p class="p3">"You did something I have never seen before, and I'm not rightly sure I'll do it justice," Alfyn says. "I was focused on Cyrus, but something changed, I don't know, like the light was coming from a huge fire instead of our piddling torches, and I looked up, just for a second, and—gods, Therion, when I looked back at Cyrus I was terrified because I didn't know how long I'd watched you. I thought I'd looked away so long Cyrus had to be gone, but it couldn't've been more than a second. I don't know how you moved like that."</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus's heart pounds. He couldn't see in the mine, and through all this he was at best delirious, more like unconscious, but all the same: it's like his body remembers what Alfyn saw. He knows that next Alfyn will say that the fire was inside of Therion.</p>
<p class="p3">"That fire was coming from you," Alfyn says. Cyrus trembles. "I don't know how. It makes no godsdamned sense, but it was like you were a pure fire, and then these streaks flashed across the monster faster than I could see, a flame or a dagger or none of that. I can't make any sense of it. Then you were in a different place and the last beast was in pieces," Alfyn says. He stretches, weaving his hands together on top of his head and making his hair stand up even more. He stares into space. Quietly, he says, "It sounds like sacrilege, but. It was like a holy thing."</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus slowly lowers his hand from his mouth. Inexplicably, he wants to weep. Maybe it's the injuries, and exhaustion. Maybe it was a holy thing, echoing in the memory of his wounds.</p>
<p class="p3">His breath has grown unsteady enough to catch Alfyn's attention.</p>
<p class="p3">"Hey now," Alfyn says, rising to his knees and shuffling over. "Don't get worked up." He ignores Cyrus's mild protest—he's not ill or worked up, but something is expressing itself through his body in a way he's never experienced it, and he wants to know it, he <em>needs</em> to know it—and Alfyn checks him over, familiar and unhesitating. Cyrus isn't really required to assist, he's found, so he reluctantly submits, while looking elsewhere. Alfyn checks Cyrus's eyes, rests fingers against the rush of blood in his neck, undoes his shirt to check the bandages. Cyrus's eyes drift to Therion, which is why he notices when the thief's withdrawn curl into himself turns into acute attention. He's staring at the bandages. Cyrus glances down. Blood colors the fabric. He doesn't think this is the first time, but Alfyn tuts.</p>
<p class="p3">"You musta moved funny," he says, peeling back that bit of bandage.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion stands abruptly.</p>
<p class="p3">"Wait, Therion," Cyrus says. He wants the thief around because there is an answer, somewhere in what Therion doesn't remember and Cyrus didn't see and Alfyn can't describe, but if Cyrus can feel it out, maybe he'll know.</p>
<p class="p3">But Therion, pale, moves away and says, "You need fresh water."</p>
<p class="p3">He leaves. Cyrus lays his head against the wall. Alfyn dabs something cool on his ribs. "It's looking a lot better, professor, but I think you need another easy night," he says.</p>
<p class="p3">"I don't need more of your sleepweed drug," Cyrus snaps.</p>
<p class="p3">"The funny thing about being an apothecary is sometimes people don't believe you know what they need to get better," Alfyn says, unperturbed. He sits back, taking his hands off Cyrus. "You can let them believe it, not give 'em anything, and let 'em hurt. Or you can tell 'em to shut it, because both of you know better, and they're cranky 'cause they're hurting and had a lot dumped on 'em just now."</p>
<p class="p3">"I'll sleep just fine," Cyrus says. He'd cross his arms but the half-done bandage is in the way.</p>
<p class="p3">"Cyrus," Alfyn says. He grins that easy grin, but there is a hardness in his eyes. He reaches for a jar on the table. "Shut it."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>in some ways, Alfyn preferred Cyrus as a patient when he was unconscious.</p>
<p>this is the first time I've written for a game, so thinking about how to translate game mechanics into a naturalistic form has been kind of fun. how do you translate achieving a divine skill? well obviously it arises from an intense emotional reaction over a person who you've been denying your feelings for! and it's traumatic! hurray!</p>
<p>and thank you so so much for your comments on the first few chapters! i hold them close to me like tiny baby ducklings and will treasure them unto the heat death of the universe.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. what priceless relics</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p3">The days pass far more quickly than Cyrus expected they would. Not having much to do except sit in the genial company of others, he thought he would ache for access to a library, but in quiet evenings and lulls of conversation he finds he has quite the library in his mind. And it needs sorting: some things he hasn't yet found a place for. He's not sure what they mean. He has tried to revisit the things he remembers from the more delirious part of his illness, to determine what was real, what was a dream, and what was something in-between, misinterpreted. Therese and her net of hair: a dream heavy with useless metaphor, but irrelevant. The feeling of his gut spilling open: real, but worth forgetting. Therion watching over him... That was real. Simple enough to determine. Everyone took turns, and Cyrus woke during a night shift with Therion. But because it's so mixed up in dreams, the memory feels weighted, filling the exchanged look with unvoiced meaning that Cyrus only grasps in dreams. In real life, he picks up on clues and concealed facts, but this is other. A half-dreamed moment of Therion in the dark.</p>
<p class="p3">And he mulls over what Alfyn said, along with the reaction it provoked in his own body. Like a memory. There are stories, Cyrus knows, that describe similar experiences, of the body remembering being a witness to certain events. Interventions. Blessings, and curses. Through his quiet waking hours, Cyrus searches his recollection.</p>
<p class="p3">In the afternoon, Alfyn declares that it's time for Cyrus to make sure his legs still work, which gives Cyrus a momentary panic, as though that were a real concern. But it's only Alfyn being Alfyn, and they take a short stroll outside. The horrifying part is when Cyrus has to pause and take Alfyn's arm, his entire torso turned into one massive heartbeat that leaves him breathless. Without comment, Alfyn moves toward a bench, where they sit by the gentle river. It's his first walk, his first conscious moment outside, his first fresh breeze in days.</p>
<p class="p3">When Therion is around, Cyrus can't help but consider the picture Alfyn painted. If only he had more detail. If only he had seen it. Maybe, in the time since the telling, Therion has remembered more. The feeling of it. But Cyrus doesn't say anything to Therion, not yet. He thinks of a fire from inside. Something holy. Another day passes. Alfyn pushes him for more strolls, and he goes longer and longer. When he sits on a bench outside of the house to join the others for dinner, he can see in their faces how much better he is. He uses his left hand sparingly, to nudge and press, to weakly balance or shift an object. Nothing requiring delicate movements. It's worst in the morning, and, like everything else, better with each passing day. But here he is at dinner, still hiding the way he only uses that hand to steady the plate on his lap, thumb carefully arranged to grip the edge. Alfyn knows. The others don't need to.</p>
<p class="p3">"Seems inefficient," Therion is saying. He sits on the ground across from Cyrus, with Tressa next to him. She's entirely focused on arguing with him, while he seems to be focused on his dinner.</p>
<p class="p3">"Look, I don't see what the fun is in just <em>taking</em> something when you could talk 'em into selling it to you for less. Then they <em>know</em> how good you are," Tressa says, making Therion laugh. "I'm serious! Not to mention that your thing is plain mean."</p>
<p class="p3">"Oh, sure, but yours is secretly mean," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"What!" Tressa punches Therion's arm. "Is not!"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion turns to his other side, to Zeph. "Excuse me, sir. I see you have a satchel for sale, there."</p>
<p class="p3">"Hmm? Oh," Zeph says, catching on quckly. "Yes, it's a sturdy satchel. Got an interesting history, too." Alfyn snorts at this.</p>
<p class="p3">"What price are you asking?" Therion asks. He truly is playing a role, putting on a different posture, smoothing out his voice and putting on a bit of a Atlasdam accent.</p>
<p class="p3">"I, uh, two hundred leaves?" Zeph says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Is that all it's worth to you?" Alfyn asks, but he's still smirking.</p>
<p class="p3">"Two hundred! Hm," Therion says. He grabs the satchel from next to Zeph and inspects it from all angles, making little interested sounds, and then disappointed ones. "Well, I suppose I could offer one-fifty."</p>
<p class="p3">"I don't know, two hundred is already—"</p>
<p class="p3">"But look at this," Therion says. He points to a scuff in the leather, then to a stain creeping along one seam. "And this. The leather is good quality, but it's quite worn. I'll probably need to recondition it against weather, and the strap will need to be reattached before one can confidently use it. Maintenance costs do add up." Therion makes a tsk-ing sound and puts the satchel back by Zeph's side.</p>
<p class="p3">"What do you mean?" Zeph protests. Cyrus has stopped eating and is watching with great interest how deeply Zeph has been caught up in the playacting. "It's a great bag!"</p>
<p class="p3">"I still can't go any higher than, oh, one seventy. With the work I'd have to do," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"One seventy," Zeph says in agreement, then glances down and says— "Wait, hang on. I'm not selling this bag."</p>
<p class="p3">While Alfyn bursts out laughing, Therion only grins to himself. Tressa is glaring at all of them, somehow, taking turns being indignant toward each face in the circle. "It's not <em>like</em> that."</p>
<p class="p3">"It's exactly like that," Therion says coolly. "And that bag could resell for three hundred, maybe four, if you find a buyer that's into items with a story. Which you are."</p>
<p class="p3">For a moment, Tressa is struck silent, frowning, but her eyes keep going to the bag. "A story, huh?"</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus is as intrigued as Tressa, but the others all share a look.</p>
<p class="p3">"Not much of a story," Alfyn says.</p>
<p class="p3">"It's a little underwhelming," Zeph says.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion rolls his eyes and goes back to his food, which he'd set aside during the playacting. But Tressa shoves him. "If <em>you</em> think it's a story, it's gotta be at <em>least</em> whelming."</p>
<p class="p3">Her joking use of a non-word makes Cyrus laugh. "Come on, Therion."</p>
<p class="p3">"It's the bigger picture," he says. But he's not looking up, just poking at a potato on his plate. "If I were gonna steal and resell it, I'd pay attention to a legend I could use, right?"</p>
<p class="p3">Alfyn snorts.</p>
<p class="p3">"You build it up. You say... Have you ever loved a place so much it was part of you?" Therion looks at Tressa, sliding back into his act, like he's selling to her. She nods, wide-eyed. "This bag belonged to a man like that. But not at first. First... an artisan in Stonegard made it for a traveler who roved Orsterra looking for a fruit that made the most perfect brew, collecting first fruits, then bottles in this bag—until he came to Clearbrook and found something better than wine. He found love."</p>
<p class="p3">"Ah!" Tressa gasped. Because of Alfyn and Zeph's comments, it wasn't much of a deduction for Cyrus to figure the story was about them, to some degree, so he glances over to find Alfyn with a furrowed brow and a crooked half-grin. Listening to the tale on a completely different level. Cyrus wonders how Therion will weave things together, and happily focuses back on him.</p>
<p class="p3">"The man settled here—he had a family, tended an orchard. When his son, in admiration for an apothecary that had helped the village through the Great Pestilence, decided to follow that path, the man gave the well-worn, well-loved bag to him, as the son trained hard to help the village. This village, which both of them loved. The river ran in their veins, the soil was in their bones. There was nothing better, to the son, than fishing by the river, or foraging in the hills nearby. So when he woke one night, certain that he needed to see the world as his father had, to learn all he could about the plants across the continent and how they could help people, well, leaving was a hard thing to face."</p>
<p class="p3">Therion turns more fully toward Tressa, fully subsumed into the act. Cyrus is captivated by the way he transforms so easily. It's both fascinating, and a sort of warning. That the thief could be lying, even down to his smallest actions.</p>
<p class="p3">And yet, Cyrus believes he could tell. If he really needed to, he could tell the difference.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion continues, "That place you loved, miss. You left it."</p>
<p class="p3">Tressa nods.</p>
<p class="p3">"That was hard to do."</p>
<p class="p3">"I know I'll go back someday," she says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Doesn't make it easier to say goodbye," Therion says. Tressa stares at him, her expression young and open, briefly flashing with a childlike loss—then she wrinkles her nose up, like she just remembered this is all fake. Therion smirks, but continues.</p>
<p class="p3">"This man, the son, the apothecary—he didn't just have a bag, and a family, and a love for the village. He had a best friend, too, like a brother. For the first time in their lives, they would be apart. And truth be told, the continent is a wild and dangerous place, and neither of them were sure they'd see the other again. But you act brave, times like these," Therion says. A flash of something that isn't part of the act crosses his face. Cyrus latches onto it, but with a sinking hope. Therion would never answer, if Cyrus was able to find a way to ask what that pain was.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion continues. "At the last minute, just before he left, trusty satchel by his side, his best friend found him. The best friend, he insisted the man take his satchel—it had a sturdier strap, and more pockets for ingredients. The man insisted the same, not bothering with any explanation, but because it meant they each had something of the other."</p>
<p class="p3">Tressa looks at the satchel, then looks at Therion, canny but also back in the spirit of the story. "So this satchel," she says, eyeing it keenly, "What you're saying is it's got travel and home right in the leather, huh. Full of the love of a father and of a best friend. Just think of what it could bring its next owner."</p>
<p class="p3">At that, Zeph slides the satchel to his other side, away from Therion and Tressa.</p>
<p class="p3">"For that, I'll give you five hundred!" Tressa says, then bursts into laughter. "Therion, that was amazing! You should've been a bard or something."</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus leans back against the house, a little winded by the excitement of the story, which happened to him even at the peak of health. He does get worked up. But seeing the way that Therion spun a tale, picking fragments of truth—though which fragments?—and building something beautiful makes Cyrus want to see it happen again. Maybe, given the fragments of truth that Alfyn gave them, Therion could build the story of what happened in the mine. Not that Cyrus hasn't been crafting his own theories, but he would eagerly listen to Therion tell the story.</p>
<p class="p3">"Nice tale," Alfyn says, more reserved than usual. "Some of it was even true."</p>
<p class="p3">"Well, I had to embellish," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Yeah, Alfyn got that bag from a passing merchant," Zeph says. "But a good touch."</p>
<p class="p3">"A family heirloom's a good story."</p>
<p class="p3">Zeph and Alfyn exchange a look, which even Tressa latches onto. She says, "What is it, Alf? Something wrong?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Oh, no, not at all," he says, mustering good cheer. "It's no heirloom, is all. Don't really have any of those. My ma didn't come from anything fancy, and my pa, well, who knows. Maybe he's got a stash of heirlooms, but who needs 'em. I've got this to come back to!" He spreads his arms wide to encompass the whole village, then sighs and looks truly content, staring somewhere above everyone's heads. At the trees, maybe, or the clouds going by, caught in colors by the lowering sun. After a minute, he notices the others waiting for him to continue, except Zeph, who's started to collect the empty plates. "Oh. Yeah, my pa left when I was but little."</p>
<p class="p3">"And you don't know what happened to him?" Tressa asks.</p>
<p class="p3">"I quit being curious about him a long time ago," Alfyn says. He smacks his thighs before standing up. "Well! That's enough excitement for tonight, right, Cy?"</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus thinks he could stand a little more excitement, but doesn't argue. He wants to save his strength to push for a greater outing tomorrow.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p3">The day is cool and clear, with a refreshing breeze from the south, which if Therion were dead and hadn't noticed, he would still know because of the way that Cyrus keeps commenting on it. Even if he lets Cyrus get ahead, he still hears the comments, since Cyrus calls back at a volume meant for a lecture hall.</p>
<p class="p3">"Cyrus," Therion says, in some perverse desire to test the man. "Isn't it a nice day."</p>
<p class="p3">"It <em>is!</em>" Cyrus exclaims. "The air is so clear and fine, and—" he inhales "—there's a wonderful sort of fresh but muddy scent—"</p>
<p class="p3">"Oh my gods."</p>
<p class="p3">"What?"</p>
<p class="p3">"I get that you've been stuck inside recovering from a nearly fatal wound," Therion says, "but if you go on one more extended rave about the weather, I'm going to give you a completely fatal wound."</p>
<p class="p3">"Hmph." Cyrus proceeds between some trees. He pauses, and looks up into a tree. "Ah! Would you prefer I tell you about the significance of the common raven in the history of the Flatlands?"</p>
<p class="p3">Above them is a black bird, eyeing them like it knows they carry food. Or Therion does, at least. Cyrus carries nothing. He stands with a hand against the thick trunk of a tree, and Therion watches him instead of the bird. Is he too out of breath? Pale? No. Maybe Therion shouldn't have agreed to this, but between Cyrus begging and Alfyn encouraging, it seemed easier to go for a walk than listen to them.</p>
<p class="p3">The bird cocks its head the other way, then emits a screaming caw before flying away.</p>
<p class="p3">"No lectures, please," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"I wouldn't want to give you a headache," Cyrus says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Are you ever going to leave that? I wasn't entirely serious."</p>
<p class="p3">"But you weren't entirely joking," Cyrus says. Veering from the path, he picks his way down a bit of hill that's covered with clumps of grass and uprooted dirt. "But it isn't important. I know we're very different. I try not to lecture when we're working on magic, you know."</p>
<p class="p3">Therion follows along, considering if Cyrus is overly melancholy or just making comments. He hitches his bag up on his shoulder. Alfyn had bundled up an array of bottles and essences for Therion to carry, in case any number of things should happen as Alfyn described them, but at the same time the apothecary kept repeating that it'd be fine, that Cyrus was doing great, that he wouldn't let them go off alone if he really thought any of the medicines would be necessary, would he? Now the bundle sits in a satchel, with a full water skin and a bit of lunch for two. It's an easy walk. At the bottom of the hill, Therion takes the lead, making sure they head toward the stretch of river he'd discussed with Alfyn.</p>
<p class="p3">He doesn't respond to Cyrus's remarks. Perhaps pointedly, but maybe his general habit of randomly ignoring comments will help him here.</p>
<p class="p3">"If we're not to talk of the weather, and I'm not to slip into a lecture, then what shall we talk about? Oh—what of your plans for the next stone?" Cyrus asks.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion pauses over a patch of ground cover full of round green leaves edged in white. "Do you think that's mouse-ear clover?"</p>
<p class="p3">"I don't know." Cyrus stoops to inspect it. He runs his fingers through some leaves gently, and then lifts his hand to his nose. "It smells oddly of onion."</p>
<p class="p3">"That's it," Therion says. He stoops by Cyrus and uses a dagger to cut a sizable patch, wrapping it in a slip of paper before tucking it the packet away. Cyrus looks at him curiously. They pause, on their knees side by side in clover. Cyrus's eyes are clear blue and steady, and the redness from the blinding attack has all but faded. His eyes are so clear, and sharp. Therion shrugs and stands. "What, Alfyn didn't train you to habitually forage? Though I think he expected me to spot things in purses or on unattended tables."</p>
<p class="p3">"Is there a lot of clover sitting around in pubs?" Cyrus stays kneeling, so Therion puts out a hand to help him up. It's more effort on his part than he'd like, Cyrus's hand gripping his own firmly.</p>
<p class="p3">"He has his own way of lecturing. I dunno if he thought I'd spot things in the field, but he sure talks about them while we're traveling," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"That he does, but they haven't seemed to stick in my mind, I suppose," Cyrus says. "You really are a quick study."</p>
<p class="p3">Therion starts down toward the river again, unwilling to listen to another word. He didn't even really want to hear those last few. After a moment, he slows, and listens for the rustle of Cyrus behind him, then stops once the river is in sight. It looks as Alfyn described. The arching trees, an ancient fallen log for a seat, the river running slow and clear. Once Cyrus is by his side, he nods at the scene.</p>
<p class="p3">"Here," he says. "This is a good spot to stop."</p>
<p class="p3">"I feel like I could keep going for an hour, in this weath—sorry." Cyrus chuckles as they make their way to the log. "So, what <em>is</em> your plan, then?"</p>
<p class="p3">"I need to head to Wellspring while the market is still going," Therion says, rummaging through his bag. He hands Cyrus a sandwich. "Steal the stone. Trek back. One step closer."</p>
<p class="p3">"Wellspring, that's right! Why haven't you gone already? I thought the market was opening as we left Quarrycrest?" Cyrus asks.</p>
<p class="p3">"It's there for weeks," Therion says. He holds his sandwich, but isn't hungry. He knew he wouldn't be. Eat, he thinks, you have to eat.</p>
<p class="p3">"But the stone might not be."</p>
<p class="p3">Therion forces himself to take a bite. Cyrus is strangely quiet, and all around them are peaceful small sounds—wind and birds and burbling water. Therion wants to throw things.</p>
<p class="p3">"We should gather our things tonight and prepare ourselves to proceed to the south first thing tomorrow. I'm sure Alfyn can be convinced. If you absolutely must, you three can leave me here in care of Zeph, as we know how completely Alfyn trusts him, and fetch me again on your way back to Bolderfall," Cyrus says. He nods, as though it's settled.</p>
<p class="p3">If Therion had gone through this alone, had never met Prim and Alfyn, then Cyrus, and Tressa, if he hadn't gotten sidetracked, he'd be long out of Wellspring by now. Maybe without them, he would've let the Ravus woman take the bangle off when she offered, never questioning if he <em>deserved</em> it. Deserved. What a thought. The others had brought that out in him. He knew he'd still find the stones for her, but no one else should believe that of him, right? Not compared to Alfyn who'd starve before charging someone who was a little strapped. Gods.</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus nudges Therion.</p>
<p class="p3">"Hm?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Water?" Cyrus asks, apparently not for the first time.</p>
<p class="p3">"Oh." Therion hands over the waterskin. He pays enough attention to be able to report to Alfyn that Cyrus doesn't drink a worrying amount. He takes two decent swigs and hands it back to Therion. Both of them sit with half-eaten sandwiches, looking silently out on the river. Even considering axe-wielding frogs and lost shrines and a stone made of human blood, this might be the most unusual thing Therion has done in some time, because after a moment, after an exhale, he finds himself genuinely enjoying it. He lets go of the other version of his life, where he is alone and already searching for the last stone. He really does. He feels free enough now. There are a few matters to clear up, but here he sits. On a log. Enjoying the sound of birds, even the distant raven. Next to an overeducated, lecturing, sometimes-pompous man who has never, not once, acted like Therion is stupid.</p>
<p class="p3">"Therion, there's something I was hoping to talk to you about," Cyrus says.</p>
<p class="p3">"What?"</p>
<p class="p3">"What do you think happened in the mine?"</p>
<p class="p3">"There it goes," Therion mutters.</p>
<p class="p3">"Pardon?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Never mind," Therion says. He starts to replace the wrapping around what's left of his sandwich. That moment of peace was fake anyway.</p>
<p class="p3">"I don't expect that you've suddenly remembered everything. But I wonder if perhaps Alfyn's perspective helped you to recall... a feeling, at least," Cyrus says. "It certainly did for me."</p>
<p class="p3">"No."</p>
<p class="p3">"Not at all? Not that... holy feeling?"</p>
<p class="p3">"I haven't thought about it," Therion lies. "I don't want to recall."</p>
<p class="p3">"Oh." Cyrus takes a small bite of his sandwich. Enough time goes by that Therion hopes that the topic is dropped. "Is it because you lost yourself in that moment? And that memory is somehow outside of you as well as part of you, and so it's almost sickening to recall?"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion is always very still, but in this moment, he is stiff. His voice feels dangerous when he says, "Excuse me?"</p>
<p class="p3">"It's a paraphrase," Cyrus says blithely. "There are stories from all eras in which people, when god-touched once, have strange experiences with their memory. Gaps and foggy stretches, which they find uncomfortable to focus on, and yet often they are drawn back to them. There are undoubtedly additional experiences in which individuals never suss out what truly happened and so we don't have records, but many of the god-touched sought guidance, worked to remember, and revealed the truth of their experience. In a few records, they seek it out again, and clarify, but I remember very little else of those details, though I'm sure in a city with any sort of library I could find those stories, and I apologize, I'm starting to lecture." The paper wrapper of his sandwich crumples noisily as he clenches his hand.</p>
<p class="p3">"No," Therion says. He ignores the heartbeat thrumming in his ears "But that can't be right."</p>
<p class="p3">"You have trouble remembering. Alfyn saw a strange light and inexplicable things. Tressa said you didn't sleep for days after, which aligns with what I remember of these stories. Even I felt the echoes of something... larger," Cyrus says.</p>
<p class="p3">"You were dying."</p>
<p class="p3">"I know."</p>
<p class="p3">"That isn't what happened."</p>
<p class="p3">"I think it is."</p>
<p class="p3">"No." Therion shakes his head.</p>
<p class="p3">"Therion."</p>
<p class="p3">"And what cut-rate god chose me, huh?" Therion asks. "Which one looked around, saw that fight, and thought, that kid, I'll give him the power to annihilate a monster, even if it fucks him up for a while? And where the <em>fuck</em> was that god the rest of my life?"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion's question echoes in the trees. He puts his hand back down on his leg, forcing his fist to open. The power to annihilate a monster. No one else said that. He remembers the flame. He can almost feel it.</p>
<p class="p3">"I'm sorry," Cyrus says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Don't."</p>
<p class="p3">"I think you can tell us what happened, if you try."</p>
<p class="p3">Therion goes to the river's edge and kneels in the mud. The river flows fast enough that he can't see his reflection, but that's fine by him. What if he saw a glow in his eyes? What if he didn't recognize himself? He splashes cool water on his face, and sits back on his heels. He saw Cyrus fall, and then. And then. Therion has a great urge to throw something again, but he clenches his fists. He's the only one he trusts, and if he can't trust his own mind, he's fucked. Water drips down his face. He saw Cyrus fall, and then.</p>
<p class="p3">"I was so—" He stops, because he's sure that being enraged and terrified have nothing to do with what happened. His hand drops back into the water. Coolness splashes his wrist. "If Alfyn saw fire, he saw fire. That's what it felt like. But not, not like our campfires. I don't know what."</p>
<p class="p3">"A cathedral's flame?"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion shakes his head, but not to disagree. He wasn't sure Cyrus could hear him until that response, since he can't bring himself to raise his voice. Every muscle is tight, his breath carefully drawn. He turns his head a little. "You know the way that you said to let magic move through you? To direct it properly. That, but ten times more. A hundred times. Your spells have words, a specific elemental power. This...this could've been anything, but I remember, like a flash, knowing what I should do."</p>
<p class="p3">Turning back, he stares out at the opposite bank without seeing it. None of this is quite right. It's the best he can do.</p>
<p class="p3">"It didn't draw on an element. It drew on... me. And I'm..." Therion pulls one of his daggers out. He draws quick lines in the air. "The beast went to pieces like that," he says. Holding the dagger loosely, he twists again toward Cyrus. "Is that a god?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Yes," he says. His eyes shine, but he's restraining himself with all his might. Therion turns away, only long enough to sheathe his dagger, stand, and wipe mud off his knees. By the time he turns around, he can draw a deep breath again. His skin feels too hot.</p>
<p class="p3">"Then you must be right." Therion rejoins Cyrus, and can practically feel the questions radiating off him. "Eat your sandwich."</p>
<p class="p3">"Do you think it was related to the pendant?" Cyrus asks. Therion gives him a scolding look, and Cyrus makes a show of taking a bite.</p>
<p class="p3">"No," Therion says. "It didn't feel like that."</p>
<p class="p3">"Do you want it to happen again?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Fewer questions, more eating. If you want to get out of this chicken coop of a town, I have to give a good report to Alfyn," Therion says. Cyrus makes a disgruntled sound at the word 'report,' but with a full mouth.</p>
<p class="p3">"But do you?" Cyrus says, a moment later.</p>
<p class="p3">"Do you think I have a choice?" Therion asks.</p>
<p class="p3">"Hmph," Cyrus says, surprised. He falls quiet while he finishes eating.</p>
<p class="p3">When they head back, Therion feels oddly clear. Tressa meets them at the edge of the village and walks with them to Alfyn's house, and even her surplus of energy doesn't irritate Therion. As they get to the yard and Tressa bounds ahead of them, calling out about how well Cyrus looks, Therion stops.</p>
<p class="p3">"I forgot," Therion says, and digs in his pocket. He pushes the talent from the shrine into Cyrus's hand, and without looking at him, because if he meets Cyrus's eye he might not do this, he says, "I'm done."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>just some folks eating some food together</p>
<p>and then forcefully remembering another traumatic moment in a life full of 'em</p>
<p>Clearbrook must be beautiful though, I imagine. I do like a river.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. a thief in the night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p3">In a nameless cave outside of Wellspring, Cyrus looks away from the killing stroke; it's not that he can't bear death, or hasn't killed with his own spells, but he can't watch Therion in that movement. It's enough to hear the gurgle, and the drop of the body in the cave.</p><p class="p3">In the quiet after, Cyrus calls for Alfyn to see to his wounds. Tressa shadows the apothecary, having picked up bits of Alfyn's knowledge better than anyone else, and curious enough to turn into a sort of apothecary in training. Cyrus's sleeves are in tatters, arms wet with blood from a dozen cuts. Painful, but better to catch them on his arms than his throat. As Tressa watches, Alfyn extends first Cyrus's right arm, then the left, pushing the sleeves out of the way roughly.</p><p class="p3">"You can wait 'til we get somewhere else," Alfyn says. "I got a suspicion some of 'em might circle back to—"</p><p class="p3">"Therion!" Cyrus exclaims. He grabs Alfyn's shoulder to turn and shove him. Therion had been ambling toward their cluster, when his leg gave out, making him stumble. He's on his hands and knees when Alfyn reaches him, and Cyrus hurries after, bloody sleeves far from his mind.</p><p class="p3">"You should've shouted," Alfyn scolds, turning Therion over.</p><p class="p3">"Wasn't bad," Therion says. His leg blooms red.</p><p class="p3">"Sure, if a knife still in your thigh isn't bad," Alfyn says. It's not solely a knife in his leg, though. Blood colors his shirt where he clutches his side, and a bruise is forming on his jaw. "C'mon, we can't stay here. Let's get to some other nook in this cave, at least."</p><p class="p3">Therion slings an arm over Alfyn's shoulder, and Cyrus hoists from his other side. As he puts an arm around Therion's waist, he thinks of the madness of the battle. Gareth's men had outnumbered them, but they'd faced higher numbers before. The echo in the cave played havoc with their communication, missing shouts in the riot. But there'd been more at play than that. They had been off, all of them, pulled out of sync from the moment they caught up to Therion in the cave.</p><p class="p3">Tressa scouts the way forward. They end up in a dead-end passage, but one whose entrance is difficult to spot from the main branch of the cave. In the meager light from an old lamp, they set Therion against one wall. He might be pale and sweaty, or it might be the clammy cave and the poor light. Cyrus stares, trying to decide.</p><p class="p3">"Tressa, see to Cyrus," Alfyn says, situating himself with his satchel.</p><p class="p3">"Really?" Tressa asks.</p><p class="p3">"Yeah, you can handle a buncha shallow swipes like that. Talk it through if you need to, I'll listen," Alfyn says.</p><p class="p3">Tressa grabs Cyrus's hand and leads him a few steps away. Still in the circle of lamplight, but far enough that the two apothecaries won't bump into each other. She pushes Cyrus to kneel in the dirt, though his eyes are still on the others.</p><p class="p3">"Professor," she says to get his attention, while she looks his arms over. "You don't need Alfyn, it's okay. I can tell none of these cuts are too deep, nothing weird on the blades to make things difficult."</p><p class="p3">Clearly, she's mistaken the reason for his distraction. He clears his throat. "I trust you."</p><p class="p3">"Good!" Tressa digs through her pack to find her little makeshift apothecary kit. She puts a splash of something into an empty bottle, then fills it the rest of the way with water and shakes it to combine. Rolling Cyrus's sleeves up almost to the tops of his arms, she exposes all the cuts. She has him hold one arm out, leaning forward, and twists this way and that until she seems satisfied with the angle and all the wounds she can see. "I don't have the patter down like Alfyn does to distract you, and I bet he knows another extract to put in here to make it feel like cool spring water, but you know what I do have?"</p><p class="p3">"What?" Cyrus asks.</p><p class="p3">"Surprise!" she says, and pours the bottle over his arm.</p><p class="p3">"Fuck!" Cyrus says, unable to help himself as his arm seems to burst into flame. The liquid hisses and bubbles over each cut, with an eye-watering sting. He mutters curses through his teeth as he clenches his other fist; the hand attached to the arm on fire seems stuck in an outspread rictus.</p><p class="p3">"Surprise may not be the best," Tressa says, rubbing his shoulder. "But I could've done the cuts one at a time, huh?"</p><p class="p3">"This is better," Cyrus says, breathing through it. He's either getting used to it, or the pain is fading fast. He glances over at the others. Therion slumps against the cave wall, grimacing toward the ceiling as Alfyn hunches over his leg.</p><p class="p3">"You got so many dumb nicks it's prolly easier to wrap you like a new sleeve," Tressa mutters, spreading a poultice over the clean wounds. When she's done bandaging, he bends his arm to test the movement and lingering burn, but it's manageable.</p><p class="p3">With trepidation, he asks, "And now the other?"</p><p class="p3">"Sorry, Professor."</p><p class="p3">Cyrus tries not to shout when she dumps the bottle this time. "Ffffu--" he hisses. He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes through clenched teeth until the initial wave of fire subsides. He waves his outstretched hand at Tressa. "Wrap it already."</p><p class="p3">"Got somewhere to be?" she asks, but she quickly applies the poultice and wraps a bandage around his other arm. As soon as it's secure, he scrambles over to Therion and Alfyn, leaving Tressa and his things behind.</p><p class="p3">"Nothin' else is all that bad," Alfyn is saying. A bandage bulks out Therion's shirt, and Alfyn inspects his face, presumably to make sure the bruise doesn't indicate anything worse, but the wound on his thigh is only covered by a thick grayish goop where the fabric of his trousers has been split and pulled away. The knife itself sits discarded on a rag. Alfyn checks Therion's eyes, and asks, "Feeling anything?"</p><p class="p3">Therion grunts, then says, "Yes." His foot twitches.</p><p class="p3">"Good, good. It was probably a short-lived paralytic anyhow, but no reason to mess around."</p><p class="p3">"A paralytic?" Cyrus asks. He crouches down. "But you've reversed it?"</p><p class="p3">"Yeah, now my leg just hurts like hell," Therion mutters.</p><p class="p3">"We'll rest here for a bit. An hour, two. Then he'll be in shape to walk," Alfyn says.</p><p class="p3">Cyrus nods, and paces away. He veers toward his abandoned bag, then turns on his heel and goes right back to Therion.</p><p class="p3">"What in the <em>hells</em> happened back there?" Cyrus asks.</p><p class="p3">"Keep your voice down! We don't exactly have a door," Tressa says.</p><p class="p3">"He did already scream 'fuck' loud enough for Sunshade to hear," Therion says. He smirks up at Cyrus, infuriatingly. "Didn't know you knew that word."</p><p class="p3">"I am not making some manner of joke. You recklessly charged forward in the caves after that red-haired man without a word, leaving us to follow by sound and hope to the gods that we found you at <em>all</em>, much less before he decided to turn and fight. Then, when we faced that lackey of his, you fought like none of us were even there to help you," Cyrus says. When Therion rolls his eyes in response, it's like the burning returns, not just to his arms. "If you had thought to call for even one of us to distract him, to block while you dove in, to perform any number of attacks we've done a hundred times with a single word, you wouldn't have received half your wounds!"</p><p class="p3">"He ain't wrong. At the start, I saw you try to run right past him out the other passage," Alfyn says. "Think that's where this bruise is from."</p><p class="p3">"So I was a little overeager."</p><p class="p3">"You were foolhardy and downright idiotic at times, Therion, and, I must say, there were a least half a dozen times you would have been <em>well</em>-served by the deployment of a blast of magic—which you have, for reasons beyond the understanding of <em>any</em> sane mortal, declined to continue practicing," Cyrus says, feeling like he's ranting. But Therion's eyes flick down and away, as though ashamed—as though unhappy about giving up the talent, but why? Why not give a reason? Why not investigate the divine magic, too? Why push it all away?—and that whirl of uncertainty puts a damper on Cyrus's anger. Instead of continuing, he exhales, deflates. "Why?"</p><p class="p3">The cave is silent but for the echoing drops of water. Cyrus himself is unsettled by his reaction, the anger that had risen up inside him, building from that first moment of Therion running alone into unknown danger. Any of them doing the same would have been reason to fear for their safety, but with Therion, it was more complicated. Cyrus thought that by now Therion <em>must</em> understand that they were all in this together, but today suggested that was perhaps foolish hope. Perhaps he just wanted to think he'd won the thief over. Perhaps despite all the help and friendship he had felt from Therion, all those moments of surprising rapport, it was all mere acting like he had done back in Clearbrook, and, in the end, the thief would still run his own way. Straight into danger.</p><p class="p3">When Therion speaks, he doesn't answer Cyrus. He says, "I was going after Darius."</p><p class="p3">"The man that ran off as we approached," Cyrus says.</p><p class="p3">"Yeah," Therion says, flatly. There's no pain in his face as he speaks, not what he must be feeling from his leg, or anything else. He's gone blank as he was when they first met. "Darius. He got the emerald dragonstone."</p><p class="p3">"Aw, hell," Alfyn says, truly upset, though it affects him not at all. Cyrus crouches once more, cautiously leaning his arms on his knees. He pieces it together: Therion's reactions. The name. The few comments he heard from Darius, echoing through the cave. And this forced stoicism, now.</p><p class="p3">"You knew him," Cyrus says, and leaves it at that.</p><p class="p3">"We used to run the streets together," Therion says. "In another life."</p><p class="p3">"I thought you worked alone," Alfyn says. Therion ignores him.</p><p class="p3">"Darius is a cut-throat, selfish bastard, but he's got lackeys to spare, apparently. I'll have to tell that Ravus woman about my fuck-up, but after that—I guess it's time for a reunion," Therion says, leaning his head against the wall again. He refuses to say more about it, and starts to pester Alfyn about his leg instead.</p><p class="p3">Cyrus knows there is a difference between Therion having no more interest in a subject, and when he has more to say but won't say it. The particular way he changes subjects, or the set of his jaw when he stops talking. Though Cyrus knows this, he doesn't yet know how to get Therion to talk more, and so he resigns himself to walking by Therion's side without, it seems, knowing him at all.</p><p class="p3"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">Most of the tavern's seating in Wellspring is underneath a broad tapestry in a courtyard, and it stays bustling late into the evening. Therion sits on a low wall near his companions, but he ignores them. The crowd is more interesting than the three wearily planning what comes next. In the crowd, there is movement to track, strangers' habits and tells to learn, eyelines to read and flirtations to use. He could steal half the purses in here, and the other half's weapons. With the strange energy that roils under his skin, Therion could steal the damn tongues out of their mouths before they could complain.</p><p class="p3">When he started on this chase for the dragonstones, Therion was well aware the past was never far away, lurking in the shadows. It was always with him. But he never expected he'd come face to face with it like that, in the flesh. When he saw Darius, the entire world narrowed. Everything came back to those mocking eyes and that teasing voice, but when it came down to it, he hesitated. Hesitated long enough that Darius kept vanishing in the shadows, leaving new lackeys to dispose of Therion. As though he couldn't be bothered. A part of Therion—the part that roils now, maybe—thinks that was because Darius knew the danger of going knife-to-knife with Therion, after everything.</p><p class="p3">Therion's leg aches, but it's oddly gratifying. It aches to the rhythm of his pulse. He's had so many occasions to sit and dwell on the workings of his body as it heals that it's perversely soothing. The pain of slowly patching itself together. The throb of healing. Even in the hands of a skilled apothecary, wounds ache. It keeps him deeply aware of his own body. That he is alive. (Like Darius.) Alive. (Despite Darius.) Alive.</p><p class="p3">He finds himself staring at a jawline for a long time before he realizes he is hungry. Starving, even. He feels old pains, broken bones, like a hollowness in his chest, desperate to be filled or for fissures to be traced, to be known. But he already devoured his dinner and downed two pints of ale, and that isn't what he needs, and neither is the fix of theft, and neither is a fight, though a fight would almost do it, almost. With the right opponent's throat to slit, <em>gods</em>, he would be satisfied. But tonight, realistically, no. That opponent is gods know where by now.</p><p class="p3">The jawline of interest is faintly tanned, attached to a long-necked woman who has dark hair bundled up into a twist, with escaped tendrils curling in the the heat and sweat. The cooling night air toys with the loose curls, tickling Therion's neck on the way across the courtyard.</p><p class="p3">"Therion," Alfyn says. "Are you staying?"</p><p class="p3">"Eh."</p><p class="p3">"You weren't listening. Doesn't matter," Alfyn says with a chuckle. He gestures at Tressa, who's leaning against his shoulder. "I'm going to see sleepy here back to the inn, but I'll come back if y'all are staying up."</p><p class="p3">"Yes," Therion says inattentively. Alfyn goes, Tressa yawning by his side. But, as in any other town, he doesn't care if the others stay. The woman is flirting with another man. Elsewhere there's a dark-skinned older man who catches Therion's eye for a moment, and holds it. Older is relative. His eyes gleam with an invitation.</p><p class="p3">Cyrus hasn't moved. He's leaned back in his chair, balanced with one foot up on the wall. Without the others, and with natural shifts and movements in the crowd, they have the corner to themselves, the edge of the tapestry giving way to a clear starlit sky. Cyrus's clothes are a bit more worn than they used to be, dusty with travel and in need of mending. He wears what is now his only shirt, never replacing the one lost to his near-fatal injury, and the sleeves of his other damaged beyond repair today. Back in the city when they met, Cyrus had looked almost prissy in his waistcoat and heavy cloak, both embroidered with gold thread that by now has lost its sheen. The rough look suits him. It matches something that's been sneaking into Cyrus's eyes. Perhaps the scholar had never had to live like this or fight like this before, but he takes to it well. Therion can admire that—and he does, eyeing the dust on his cuffs, the mussed hair, set of his jaw.</p><p class="p3">Cyrus takes a swig of his nearly-empty ale, tipping the glass and his head in one smooth motion. Therion watches the swallow in his throat, lets his eyes trace down. Of course he'd <em>noticed</em>. But he'd never truly thought—but hadn't he?—it would be convenient, too. Delicious to satisfy this hunger there.</p><p class="p3">Cyrus sets the mug on the table, and lifts his foot slightly to kick Therion's uninjured thigh.</p><p class="p3">"You've not weighed in," Cyrus says.</p><p class="p3">"On?"</p><p class="p3">"On where we go after Bolderfall. The others are open to any possibility. The facts I have gathered thus far lead me to Stonegard, but if you have any inkling as to where your duties will take you next..."</p><p class="p3">"Not a damn clue," Therion says. He slides down on the wall so his feet touch ground, and he leans, slightly, against Cyrus's propped foot. If Cyrus is as dense with men as he is with women, he won't even notice. But one move at a time. His hand brushes Cyrus's ankle. "Don't care. It's all gone to shit anyway."</p><p class="p3">"Alfyn and Tressa are both interested in the coast, past Stonegard, but their inclinations are simply vague ideas and they wouldn't mind at all if we ignored them. So I suppose the real course of action is to see if a visit to your employer sheds any light onto your next steps," Cyrus says.</p><p class="p3">"I said I don't care, Cyrus," Therion says, uninterested in the topic. Instead of letting his hand come to rest on Cyrus's ankle, he pushes, forcing his foot down off the wall, making Cyrus lean forward to rebalance. Therion catches his collar, so quick that it takes Cyrus a moment to notice and look up. Therion's hand tugs him up and forward. Therion slouches down. Close enough to—Therion grins at the startled look that gives way to revelation. Cyrus's eyes reflect such life, such vivid, sparkling life that it's almost enough, right then and there, to match the need in Therion. But no.</p><p class="p3">It's unfair, the way that Therion feels like he's staring down at prey, but it's not like he feels bad. That's not what he feels at all.</p><p class="p3">"Therion—" it sounds almost like a protest but Cyrus is straining up, more than Therion tugs at his shirt, so Therion does what the man is asking without asking, and kisses him, hard and sure. He's eager enough, too, Cyrus is, his hands leaping to Therion's arm, just enough pressure to say <em>don't pull away</em> even as his mouth pulls away and he looks at Therion with wide eyes, confused but slightly flush. "What are you doing?"</p><p class="p3">"You have awfully strange gaps of knowledge," Therion says. He loosens his hand to brush a finger against Cyrus's collarbone.</p><p class="p3">"I know what—I meant—" Cyrus shakes his head a little. Then his hands on Therion's arm get heavy, pulling Therion like gravity, a little closer again. "I meant..."</p><p class="p3">"Oh," Therion says, his focus flicking across the room. "Alfyn."</p><p class="p3">Cyrus snaps his head to see the apothecary. Therion lets his shirt slip from his fingers as Cyrus pulls away just enough. He sits up on the wall again.</p><p class="p3">"We really have to stop letting her try to keep pace," Alfyn says as he gets closer in the crowd. "She just doesn't have anywhere to put all that ale before—zzzz!" Alfyn makes an exagerrated snore.</p><p class="p3">With an interest that becomes more detached by the moment, Therion notes how Cyrus regains his composure, separates himself, only casts a bare glance at Therion as Alfyn plops into a seat. Cyrus smoothes the ghost of a wrinkle away. Therion only watches. Whatever the details in the scholar's head, that moment, that kiss, Therion can sense it being reasoned away into unimportance. It's kind of funny, the way he can see it happening. Not quite forgetting. A new story. <em>We'd had a few drinks</em>, maybe. Or, <em>it was just a game to him anyway</em>. Therion's not stupid. He knows how he comes off. Maybe it <em>was</em> just a game. Certainly nothing of importance. At least it's early enough, the crowd lively enough that he can shift to satisfy his hunger elsewhere in the tavern.</p><p class="p4">❈</p><p class="p3">Therion doesn't outlast the others, after more drinking and talk of next steps that he quashes. Instead, as they exit the tavern, he simply leaves them. Let them wonder where he went.</p><p class="p3">Back to the tavern. And shortly, under the lanterns and stars peeking through the tapestry, he edges closer to the woman with the tempting jawline, who has lingered and lingered. Her name is Alaya, and she is an almost entirely legitimate merchant. She laughs when he says that he is too.</p><p class="p3">"I nearly left," she says as it grows later. She crosses her leg so that her foot is barely not grazing Therion's calf. "I thought you were looking at a certain handsome man."</p><p class="p3">"I looked at a lot of people." Therion plays a game against himself, which is: how long can they avoid touching? He dangles his hand close to her back, arm along her chair.</p><p class="p3">"And you did more than look." Alaya takes a drink, and runs her fingers, damp with condensation, along her neck, drawing Therion's eyes with faint glimmer of water.</p><p class="p3">"Well," he says, wanting so badly to throw the game and kiss the glimmer, "the night turned."</p><p class="p3">"Was he such a terrible kisser?"</p><p class="p3">Therion only smiles.</p><p class="p3">"Aha," Alaya laughs, lightly. And she stands. "You'll have to tell me more. Exactly what sort of kiss it was. Perhaps what you hoped might happen." Alaya takes a step, then looks over her shoulder. A curl sticks to her cheek. "Over a drink in my room?"</p><p class="p4">❈</p><p class="p3">"You're in for the night of your life," Alaya says, and Therion laughs into her neck, which smells of jasmine and sweat.</p><p class="p4">❈</p><p class="p3">Therion loves the blur of this, the pure sensory rush of it, when the entire world becomes skin and pulse and muscle, when everything that is and was and will ever be becomes, for a moment, incarnated in his living breathing body because he is a<em>live</em>—</p><p class="p4">❈</p><p class="p3">Therion wakes to sunlight in his face and the smell of coffee. How long was he even asleep? Not long enough. He's still in her room, where Alaya alternates a step of dressing with a sip of coffee from a small ornate cup, which matches a carafe nearby. A cropped blouse. A sip. A belt around her skirt. A sip. A diaphonous jacket with uncountable buttons. A lengthy inhale from the cup, followed by a sip while seated in the lone chair in the room. She looks at Therion, who's now fully awake but lounging, decadently watchful.</p><p class="p3">"There's enough coffee for you, but I'm afraid I only have the one cup. It's mate was broken in my travels and it seemed unimportant to replace it," Alaya says.</p><p class="p3">"Should I cup my hands?" Therion asks. He shuffles for his clothes. His wounds feel nearly healed. He'll have to pay Alfyn another rare and grudging compliment.</p><p class="p3">Alaya tops off the mug in front of her. "You could go door to door asking for charity. Or—use mine."</p><p class="p3">"I do so love begging," Therion says flatly. Standing over her in his trousers and undershirt, he takes the cup and drinks, closing his eyes as the brew hits him. Smoother than anything he's had in... ever. It tastes sweetly of nuts, and stronger than the coffee they scrounge up in towns. Before he thinks to hand it back, half the cup is gone. "Sorry."</p><p class="p3">"I understand. I have very refined tastes in some respects," she says with her eyes still on him. She tops the cup up again, taking a long drink before handing it back. She drinks him in, too. "Some things, I like in a rougher state. You'll have to go, though. I have business to attend, and I can't leave a thief in my room."</p><p class="p3">"I would never," he says, and she smirks at him. She pulls at his waist to make him lean closer, and tilts her head up toward him. She runs her hand down his leg so gently it's like a breeze.</p><p class="p3">"This was fun. If I ever see you again, you should bring your friend, not just talk about him," Alaya says.</p><p class="p3">Therion is used to holding his tongue. He's used to keeping a straight face. In this case, he doesn't say a hundred half-finished thoughts, and instead smirks back at her. "So long as you bring this coffee."</p><p class="p3">"Deal," she says, and instead of shaking his hand, she lightly shoves him toward the rest of his clothes. "Come on, now, time to start the day."</p><p class="p3"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3">In the morning, Cyrus sits with Alfyn and Tressa in the meager courtyard of the inn for breakfast, waiting for Therion to show up so they can head out to Bolderfall. Cyrus idly rubs his left hand; it's stiff, as it usually is in the morning now. Though maybe a little less, today. When Therion arrives via the gate, not from the building, it shouldn't be anything to take note of; he often rises and wanders the night, and Cyrus has given up wondering if he's up to nefarious things at those times, because usually, as far as Cyrus can gather, he isn't. It's later in the morning than they would usually gather, particularly since there's nothing left for them in Wellspring. By all accounts, Therion should have been waiting for them, eager to get out of this wretchedly hot place. But when Therion walks by the table, he pauses only long enough to say that he's off for a bath before they leave.</p><p class="p3">Cyrus tries to think of many things, but since it's all in service of not wondering about others, he fails by definition, always aware of what he's trying not to dwell on. Therion being elsewhere. Therion taking a bath. Never hearing Therion return to the inn in the night. Being fairly certain Therion didn't sleep in his room. So where did he sleep? Cyrus has decided the previous night was embellished in his memory, from a small, impulsive kiss to—to what? But he hasn't let go of it. A small, impulsive... There's a sort of academic back-and-forth going on inside of him—if they hadn't been interrupted, would Cyrus know where Therion was last night? Does he care where Therion was? Should he? If it's important, Therion will say. But what if they hadn't been interrupted by Alfyn returning? Oh, Albright, you make assumptions—<em>was</em> it Alfyn's return that made them part? And who pulled away first? Upon asking himself the question, he finds himself uncertain of the answer, but another question counters, yet again: does he regret the parting? Or is he dwelling on it because it's an aberration? To Therion, it was likely a meaningless offer, which, upon interruption, he was distracted from, and did not care to extend again. But Cyrus keeps finding his good hand at his mouth at odd moments, staring off in thought with his thumb along his lip.</p><p class="p3">As the wait stretches on, Alfyn disappears into the town to learn every last drop he can about local methods of healing, and procure any rare ingredients he may unearth. Tressa leaves as well, saying she'd rather shadow Alfyn and cast an eye for unusual merchandise than sit around twiddling her thumbs.</p><p class="p3">After some time, during which Cyrus stares at one of his recent acquisitions but takes in no words from the page, Therion appears at the table with damp hair. He drops his bag to the floor and himself into the wicker seat opposite Cyrus, and says something innocuous and ignorable as Cyrus sets his book aside, which is all morning habit by now. Cyrus tries to keep some manners in this: customary greetings and rote habits can cycle through, while Cyrus takes one last moment to think.</p><p class="p3">"What're you doing?" Therion asks. His eyes are on Cyrus's hands, as Cyrus massages and pulls at his fingers to finally uncurl them.</p><p class="p3">"Ah, this? A bit of stiffness, that's all. It's a lingering effect of the attack in the mine, but it eases away fairly quickly. After quite a lot of discussion, we suspect it has something to do with the miasma that I recall breathing, although no one, least of all me, saw anything of it, so we have very little to go on," Cyrus says. He holds his hand out, like he's admiring how normal it is now, then drops it to his lap.</p><p class="p3">"Gods," Therion scoffs. "I knew you should've stayed in Clearbrook."</p><p class="p3">"Perhaps I should have," Cyrus admits, but for a different reason.</p><p class="p3">Cyrus has studied his memories, considered his knowledge of Therion, weighed his own confusion and curiosity, and mulled over everything he has learned about overtures and body language, and concludes that he has to say something, even if it would cause less friction to pretend amnesia. He leans forward on the table. Therion barely looks up from the tea that has just arrived for him.</p><p class="p3">"About last night," Cyrus says, and is relieved to see Therion crack a grin, since he didn't quite have the rest of the sentence composed.</p><p class="p3">"Yeah, I didn't make it back to the room. Were the mother hens worried?" Therion chuckles.</p><p class="p3">"Pardon? That was hardly what I meant—"</p><p class="p3">"After you headed off, I met this woman in the tavern," Therion says, but trails off, his eyes elsewhere. Tressa, with Alfyn following behind her. Cyrus wants to shoo them away and fix this conversation, but here they are, and he can hardly do anything about that. "I was just saying," Therion continues, "that everything was perfectly fine last night and you should really mind your own business."</p><p class="p3">"I hope you weren't stealing anything too major," Tressa says dryly.</p><p class="p3">"Not a thing, thank you very much. Had a lot more fun than that," Therion says. "There was this—uh, how old are you, Tressa?"</p><p class="p3">"Excuse me?" Tressa's voice squeaks, undermining her predictable outrage.</p><p class="p1">"Let's just say I met a woman I decided to spend some time with." Therion, already leaned back in his chair, somehow shifts his position to suggest even more debauchery than his tone does. Cyrus stares, unsure of what to do with Therion's words. Tressa's eyes go wide, but then she grins.</p><p class="p3">"Are you going to be less of a dick now?" she asks.</p><p class="p3">Alfyn shoves her shoulder. "None of this is any of our business!"</p><p class="p3">Cyrus is surprised. He hadn't taken Alfyn for prudish, and apparently neither had Therion, who says, "Please—all our time on the road, I can't be the only one to have a little fun?"</p><p class="p1">His glance at Cyrus is so small as to almost be a trick of the light. Cyrus has to forget it or else puzzle over it for ages, because really, Therion isn't looking at him at all but only at Alfyn, who says, with a slight pink to his cheeks, "I would never—"</p><p class="p3">Therion's eyebrows shoot up.</p><p class="p3">"—kiss and tell," Alfyn finishes. The table explodes into laughter, including Cyrus, who can't help himself. Therion shoves Alfyn, hard but friendly, in the shoulder.</p><p class="p3">"Oh, now you <em>have</em> to, sunshine," Therion says. The slight pink has turned into a full blush, but Alfyn doesn't seem to care. He waits until the table settles.</p><p class="p3">"C'mon, now, calm down," Alfyn says. "Enough. What's the plan from here? Therion, you said you've got to check back with that lady in Bolderfall, yeah? But Cyrus ought to head to Stonegard sooner than later."</p><p class="p3">"I've got that solved," Therion says, a hand raised. "You don't need me around. I'll head to Bolderfall myself and catch up with you after."</p><p class="p1">Cyrus jolts. Before he can protest, and protest vehemently, Tressa groans.</p><p class="p3">"What? It'll take ages to go all the way back to the cliftlands, then back through here, over to the highlands... Who knows if we'll even still be in Stonegard?" Tressa says.</p><p class="p1">"Exactly why you shouldn't come with me. I'll travel faster alone, and you can deal with that book. If you leave Stonegard, leave a note at the tavern. I'll catch up. If I don't, assume I'm dead!" Therion says, with dark cheer. Cyrus has no arguments for once. The plan makes sense. And yet. Cyrus has rapidly lost his way on the entire morning; this was not the conversation he wanted to have, and he was not prepared for <em>this</em>.</p><p class="p3">"Whatever the Ravus woman says, promise you won't go after the rest of the stones alone," Alfyn says.</p><p class="p3">"Something that dangerous? I know exactly who to take with me," Therion says, and gives them a reassuring grin. It's meant to be, at least. After a second, Cyrus blinks and sees it as brittle.</p><p class="p4">❈</p><p class="p3">The next day, they near the east-west road, where they'll have to part. Alfyn and Tressa are more resilient in the heat of the sunlands and keep some distance ahead, while Therion often lags; at times, he's made the excuse that their incessant cheer gives him a headache. Cyrus falls back with him. There is nothing he can do to stop Therion from leaving, unless there is. At the very least, he can say the words he meant to say before.</p><p class="p3">"Therion," he says. They are both dragging their cloaks, bags heavy on their backs. Therion grunts an acknowledgement. "I can't pretend I was so drunk as to forget. Can you?"</p><p class="p3">Therion shoots him a glance.</p><p class="p1">"It wasn't anything, though, was it?" Cyrus says, stumbling into his own excuses. He doesn't know where to take this. He wants it to be nothing, in part, because that's simpler. Because what would it say if that kiss were <em>something</em> and yet Therion spent the night as he did? What would it say if that kiss were <em>something</em>, full stop? Cyrus clears his throat, and Therion marches forward steadily, his eyes on the pair ahead of them. "I mean to say. It was nothing, one of those things. After that fight—"</p><p class="p3">"Right. After seeing Darius," Therion says, like the words have to be dragged out of him. His relaxed cheer from back in Wellspring has dried up in the heat.</p><p class="p3">"So it's nothing to think of," Cyrus suggests.</p><p class="p3">"Not at all," Therion says.</p><p class="p3">"But."</p><p class="p3">Therion grimly marches forward.</p><p class="p3">"But why?"</p><p class="p3">Therion hitches his bag up more comfortably. "You were there," he says, and picks up his pace.</p><p class="p3">When the crossroad appears and their paths diverge, Therion gives them a parting nod. Cyrus wants to grab him back. He wants to take his arm, and say maybe it wasn't nothing to think of. Instead, he turns east.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>therion!!! sex isn't going to make you feel better about darius showing up!!!</p><p>wait, it did? sorry, i misunderstood</p><p>alaya's coffee set is something <a href="https://previews.123rf.com/images/jessmine/jessmine1204/jessmine120400031/13273353-turkish-coffee-set-isolated-on-white.jpg">like this</a>. i like coffee!</p><p>also tbh I was last in a fandom pre-ao3 and have not caught onto tag etiquette, but I thought it's a fling so don't tag Therion/Alaya. yes? no?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. your only true passion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p3">For several days, Cyrus travels with Alfyn and Tressa, and very little is changed on the surface, but an air of disquiet hovers between them all. If asked, Tressa would say good riddance to Therion, but she always enjoyed debating with him about the value of whatever strange object one of them had found. Alfyn had traveled with the thief the longest, and occasionally wonders out loud about Therion's health and wounds. Cyrus doesn't speak of him unless someone else does, and then he tries not to say much, because he finds himself thinking about Therion more than he expects to. It's not the kiss. That was nothing. Missing a person who's so prickly and secretive is a strange thing; Cyrus isn't sure he's missing a real person at all.</p><p class="p3">On the road, Cyrus finds himself bored and distracted all at once, and asks if either of the others would like to try Alephan's talent, but Tressa is a poor match as a student (too impatient, and too keen to sidestep encounters rather than blast them away) and Alfyn struggles to find a strong source of offensive magic. That, Cyrus finds strange; the apothecary clearly draws up some form of magic when healing, but apparently without realizing it. Cyrus quietly accepts the talent back from each of them in turn. He wishes Therion had taken it with him.</p><p class="p3">Upon arriving in Stonegard, they survey the taverns to find one that doesn't appear prone to brawlers, is busy enough to overhear conversations, and serves food that isn't merely edible, but appetizing. The third item on the list is the most difficult. Outside the tavern that best fits the bill, Alfyn stops in his tracks.</p><p class="p3">"I'll be damned," he says.</p><p class="p3">Coming down the stairs is Primrose, a relaxed expression on her face. On one side of her is a warrior of a woman (or rather, Cyrus corrects himself, a huntress) and on the other is a pale, stocky leopard. When Primrose spots them, she smiles, but doesn't rush over. She is changed from the woman Cyrus briefly knew in the flatlands. When she's close enough, she pulls away from her companions and almost dances the last few steps to Alfyn, whose arms are open wide. He hugs her so thoroughly she's lifted from the ground and lands with a laugh. Cyrus is more restrained in his embrace. She pulls back, one arm still around his back, and looks around the group.</p><p class="p3">"Where's Therion?" she asks.</p><p class="p3">"Heading to Bolderfall alone. Says he'll meet back up with us," Alfyn says, and even he sounds a little pessimistic.</p><p class="p3">Primrose nods at that. After meeting Tressa, Primrose introduces the huntress as H'aanit—indeed the writer of the letter they encountered so long ago in S'warkii—and her snow leopard, Linde. At H'aanit's suggestion, they join together and take over a large table in the tavern, though the proprietor insists that the snow leopard stay outside.</p><p class="p3">Before they leave the creature, H'aanit kneels by her.</p><p class="p3">"I knowen it isn't fair. But you do hate a crowded tavern," she says, rubbing Linde's ears. With a soft murmur of a growl, Linde curls up in the shade of the building, tightly bundled as a housecat, with her eyes heavily lidded but watching the street.</p><p class="p3">It takes hours of food and drink for them to begin catching up. Alfyn and Cyrus trade off telling of their travels through the frostlands, in Quarrycrest, Wellspring, and all between—though Cyrus leaves off certain details. He tries to hurry them through the mention of his injury outside of Quarrycrest, but has to sit through some amount of sympathy from Primrose, a hand on his arm and her eyes a little too keen, inspecting his face. Alfyn leaves off the details of how, exactly, they survived the monster, saying only that it was defeated; Tressa doesn't pipe up, and Cyrus doesn't question it. Even after the moment by the river, Cyrus still isn't sure <em>what</em> happened, only that it was divine. There are plenty of reasons not to theorize further, not now. Perhaps Alfyn skips it because Therion himself is not here to tell it, which would be a sort of kindness. He does the same when they come to the details of Wellspring, and no one says the name Darius—only "a bandit."</p><p class="p3">The story that Primrose weaves with H'aanit is long and practiced, as though they've told it before. They met in Stillsnow—a dragon defeated, a journey into a house of exploitation, an agreement to aid each other until necessity separated their paths. A familiar enough deal to everyone at the table. But theirs was broken. Primrose was pointed back to Noblecourt, to her horror and little surprise. (She admits to them, now, that the town where they parted ways was in fact the town of her birth, and where she had lost everything.) The battle she faced there left her sorely wounded, and though H'aanit had business beckoning her south—and urgently, as a dangerous beast remained on the loose—she stayed as Primrose recovered. Even as Primrose pushed her away. Without the help of an expert apothecary, the wound took some weeks to heal before she was able to travel, but between H'aanit and Linde, Primrose was never alone.</p><p class="p3">The story they tell does not include any mention of love, no moment of revelation, no admission of feelings, but Cyrus finds it unnecessary to know a timeline and itinerary for this thing they share. It's enough to see the ease they have between them, and hear the gentle amusement in telling of those weeks, of quietly being together and waiting for a body to heal, of uneventful days by the others' side. Somewhere inside the walls of Noblecourt, the ground under their feet had changed.</p><p class="p3">From there, the story has a feel of a boulder rolling inevitably down a hill. They elide small things as Cyrus and Alfyn had, like the pain that shows in Primrose's eyes at the mention of Everhold. But they have saved what they could, undone what needed undoing, and found something like peace, or at least a peace for what may yet come.</p><p class="p3">"My master is safely with a companion of his while we rest here in Stonegard," H'aanit says.</p><p class="p3">"He would love to hear your stories," Primrose says to the others.</p><p class="p3">"But they are not yet finished. They have not found their quarry," H'aanit says solemnly. "I would offeren my help, but I cannot bear to leave Z'aanta to travel alone. He is like to find a new way to turn himself to stone—or his money to stones."</p><p class="p3">"Perhaps Alfyn could meet him, at least... Without telling Z'aanta of his profession, of course," Primrose says.</p><p class="p3">H'aanit eyes Alfyn, and to his credit, Alfyn doesn't squirm. "So that none should be the wiser that we are still concerned for his health?"</p><p class="p3">"Z'aanta would never admit that being stone was hard on him."</p><p class="p3">"I'd be more than happy to," Alfyn says, and glances toward the windows at the front of the tavern, where the world has grown dark. "First thing in the morning, I think."</p><p class="p2">❈</p><p class="p3">Cyrus rarely <em>intends</em> to spy—he is much more likely to blunder up and ask for information—but once he realizes he has inadvertently placed himself in a position to do so and glean information he might not otherwise get, it's rather hard to walk away. And sometimes, it's physically impossible to walk away. In the morning, he sits in a secluded corner in a particularly quiet tavern with a bitter cup of tea and all his notes about <em>From the Far Reaches of Hell</em>, including all he had spoken of with Odette, when he realizes he can hear, quite clearly, familiar voices. At first he can't find them, but he knows it to be Primrose and H'aanit, who must have no idea he sits within earshot.</p><p class="p3">"Maybe they don't want my help," Primrose says.</p><p class="p3">"They face true dangers, and you saw how it bears on them. Last night you said that both men wore an older look than you recalled," H'aanit says. Cyrus sits up straighter, not sure what that implies. He assumes <em>both men</em> is himself and Alfyn. And he assumes, with a leap in his chest, that <em>my help</em> implies Primrose is thinking of joining them. He carefully looks around, and sees the pair at a table by the window, across the room. Briefly, he's distracted by wondering how their voices carry so clearly to him. He wonders if this was purposeful, and to what purpose; was it used strategically by spies or secret lovers or—and then H'aanit speaks again. "I cannot imagine they would deny your offer."</p><p class="p3">Primrose sighs, and with her sigh she slumps a little forward, reaching for H'aanit's hands across the table. They are nearly silhouetted by the morning light in the window, so Cyrus cannot see their faces, only their poses.</p><p class="p3">"I left them so abruptly..." Primrose says. "At the time, it seemed like the only choice. And I see that in Therion's absence. He and I had a strange kinship, and at the time I thought it was important that we both stay utterly focused. That we not get distracted by these foolish people we'd met. I was leaving, and it seemed like he was starting to dawdle, distracted by his lessons with Cyrus and that talent."</p><p class="p3">"Perhaps he saw its power as a benefit to his task."</p><p class="p3">And now, Cyrus truly cannot stop listening, even if he thought he could slip away unnoticed. The mention of Therion and the talent demands Cyrus's attention. He doesn't mind being described in Primrose's words as <em>foolish people</em>, for he can also hear in her fond tone how she no longer believes that descriptor. It is deeply intriguing to hear her regrets, and that Therion is part of them somehow.</p><p class="p3">"I understand now how selfish, how poisonously, single-mindedly angry I still was when I gave him that advice. I worry more for him than I do for the others. That perhaps he took it to heart, what I told him, and it has only hurt him more," Primrose says. Cyrus finds himself gripping his pen too tightly. How, he wonders, was Therion hurting back then? The thief was clearly terse, hard to impress, and used to working alone, but what more did Primrose see that Cyrus missed?</p><p class="p3">There are probably many answers to that question.</p><p class="p3">"If I go, I can help them, but I think... I think that I also hope to find him again. I'm sorry."</p><p class="p3">"For what are you sorry?"</p><p class="p3">"For leaving. I know you need to see Z'aanta home," Primrose says. "I'll find you in S'warkii as soon as I'm able. I swear to it. I'll come as fast as I can."</p><p class="p3">"Ah, Primrose," H'aanit says. She lifts a hand to Primrose's face. "Your choice is clear. Our paths will crossen again if they are fated to."</p><p class="p3">"If?" It's hardly a sound. Cyrus wonders if the effect has shifted, but it's only Primrose's voice faltering.</p><p class="p3">"I maken no promises on parting. The wilds have a way of breaking them, and you and I will both face such wilds before we hope to find S'warkii." H'aanit moves to take both of Primrose's hands again. "Though both of us have been known to give fate a nudge."</p><p class="p3">Primrose is quiet for a moment, her head tilted down, as though studying their linked hands. Then she looks up. "Faith. Have faith that I'll find you in S'warkii. Not succumb to fate."</p><p class="p3">H'aanit lifts their hands and kisses Primrose's fingers. "Faith, then," she says, before rising from her seat. "I must leave with Z'aanta by mid-day. If we must part..."</p><p class="p3">"I'll find you," Primrose says. H'aanit leans down to kiss her. Cyrus sinks back into the shadows as H'aanit leaves. Not long after, Primrose leaves as well. Cyrus is left ostensibly with his notes on the missing tome, but mostly with his thoughts about what Primrose had said. And the dark cheer Therion had worn when they parted. But most of all, the way Therion had dismissed Cyrus on the road, compared to the intensity of his look the night before, a hand at Cyrus's collar. The facts of his memory are muddled by feelings, and he doesn't know which is truer: the night, or the morning.</p><p class="p3">Later, after Alfyn and Tressa have joined him for breakfast and planning, Primrose interrupts. Cyrus does his best to act surprised and delighted by her offer. If anyone could catch a bad acting job, it would be her, but she makes no sign of it.</p><p class="p2">❈</p><p class="p3">Days later, Cyrus sits at a table, in a stranger's home, holding a cooling compress to his head, exhausted. But he is surrounded by his companions, and for reasons he can't quite wrap his head around, one of his students lies injured in the next room. He knows the <em>facts</em> of it—Therese followed her own clues to Stonegard, to Yvon's ancestral home, to Cyrus trapped in an oubliette—but finds the <em>why</em> of it unsatisfactory.</p><p class="p3">Now that all are gathered, and Alfyn is done administering aid to the worst of their injuries and can rest a moment, Cyrus begins.</p><p class="p3">"I did not believe that I was headed into any great danger, of course. When Yvon's assistant approached me, she appeared to be sincere in her concern that Yvon was on the verge of summoning dark magic, and there was little time to waste. Of all people, she would know what the man was planning, and I thought it prudent to go investigate, at the very least, and do what I could to delay him," Cyrus says, though the words come slowly.</p><p class="p3">"You could've spared a minute to find one of us," Alfyn says. He packs away his bandages and salves, then doles out a round of restoratives.</p><p class="p3">"She was convincing. I thought I could trust her," Cyrus says wearily. He should have suspected. There: a quality he would do well to pick up from Therion. "When I stepped over the threshold, she hit me with something, and I awoke in some pain, in a deep cell. They—Yvon and herself, aligned as ever but not in the purely administrative horrors I had always assumed—left me there. Enough time passed that I was able to determine that there was no way for me to exit the cell on my own. I had no useful supplies, saw no way of climbing the stone walls, and had no food or water."</p><p class="p3">"But she showed up," Primrose says.</p><p class="p3">"Therese, one of my students, yes. She helped me out of that prison. Gods bless her, she came out of nowhere."</p><p class="p3">"Gods bless," Primrose says, sharper than Cyrus had. "Her blustering around town was the only thing that led us to you."</p><p class="p3">"I wish you had gotten there sooner. Perhaps she would be uninjured," Cyrus says. He pulls the compress from his head and looks at it. It's lightly spotted with blood. Alfyn had cleaned the wound, but done little to heal it, saying that blows to the head are best left to their own. He thinks of the crack Therion had taken to his jaw back in Wellspring. They should go after him. They never should have let him go alone. Not that Cyrus was dissatisfied with their choice to come to Stonegard, in what seems to be the nick of time, but now, now this is done, and he must move on regardless, so they ought to race back to find him, oughtn't they? From his demeanor in the sunlands, Therion seemed unlikely to strictly keep his word to come to Stonegard. They'll leave a note and then chase after him. Find him on the road.</p><p class="p3">"Cyrus?"</p><p class="p3">"Hmm?" Cyrus looks up. He's forgotten what he was saying, but he sees the others' faces and claws his concentration back. "Oh. Therese. She began to explain, when Yvon appeared. Yvon attacked me, grabbed Therese, and vanished."</p><p class="p3">"And we know the rest," Primrose says. At that, Alfyn steps into the next room with his bag. Cyrus gets a small glimpse of Therese on a bed.</p><p class="p3">"She'll be fine," he says. It wasn't like the others. She hadn't been drained of any blood by the time they arrived. She would be fine. Because they had stopped Yvon, and when Yvon used a blood crystal to transform, they had stopped that too. What had he said at the end? Some mad talk of immortality. "Yvon is dead. This is over."</p><p class="p3">Primrose and Tressa share a look. "Tressa, could you see if Alfyn needs help?"</p><p class="p3">Tressa nods, and slips into the other room. When they're alone, Primrose says nothing, but sits down in the chair closest to Cyrus. He gingerly places the compress back against his head, and leans on the table.</p><p class="p3">"Do you think this is over?" Primrose asks quietly. He only looks at her. He considers that Lucia had, after all, led him to the house, and now she was gone. He looks away.</p><p class="p3">"I don't have the tome," he says.</p><p class="p3">"We'll find it, then."</p><p class="p3">"I greatly appreciate your help," Cyrus says. "It is a selfless thing you're doing."</p><p class="p3">"Tell me, Cyrus," Primrose says. "Do all of your students follow you across the continent, or only ones who are in love with you?"</p><p class="p3">Cyrus furrows his brow. "I don't know what you mean."</p><p class="p3">"I thought my question was fairly straightforward," she says, with a crooked half smile.</p><p class="p3">"Therese?" Cyrus says. "No." He stares at the grain of the wooden table. And then: "Ah. Well. In Atlasdam..."</p><p class="p3">"What, back then?"</p><p class="p3">"She was the one who initiated the rumor about myself and the princess, out of, I think, some jealousy... though she did not intend for it to escalate. I see now that Yvon forced the escalation to remove me from his orbit... no, my dear friend, your question is a misinterpretation of the passion Therese and I both share," Cyrus says. What had happened in Atlasdam was a passing infatuation, confused by the intensity of their studies, surely. "An amusing idea, however."</p><p class="p3">Primrose closes her eyes slowly, then leans back, and finally looks at him again. "Of course," she says. "It's her passion for research that led her to chase you to Stonegard."</p><p class="p3">"Don't say that like it's so absurd."</p><p class="p3">"Cyrus, I don't mean to crush your dreams, but no young woman has ever been so passionate about her studies that she would chase her teacher across the continent on her own," Primrose says.</p><p class="p3">"Ah, so she must have a greater reason," Cyrus says. Primrose looks at him expectantly. "She must have some knowledge of Yvon or the tome which led her here."</p><p class="p3">"Or..." Primrose says. Cyrus stands, dropping the compress onto the table.</p><p class="p3">"I had worried that our tasks would force us to leave before she was well—now I know we must stay until she and I can speak," Cyrus says. He moves toward the bedroom door. "Thank you, Primrose. You are quite right."</p><p class="p3">He decides that he will wait quietly by Therese's bedside, a decision made all the easier when Tressa and then Alfyn both leave. With only the light filtering through the curtains, the room is dim, which he finds preferable as his head is still throbbing gently. In the quiet room, he is left with all his notes, his unanswered questions, and his thoughts, which do not stay confined to his notes on the missing tome. What Primrose had suggested was, of course, absurd—and then he remembers Odette, and her old letter, and her amused lack of surprise at the rumor that sent him packing from the academy; not to mention the rumor itself and how easily others believed it. It would be hubristic to assume that he knew without a shadow of a doubt the heart of another person, even one he'd been teaching for several years, particularly when presented with an alternate hypothesis from a natural student of human nature. Primrose's entire life was bound by her ability to read others, was it not? Her ability to understand their desires? So, Cyrus reasons, it would be best to assume she may be correct, despite his own feelings about the matter. A true scholar does not let prior assumptions get in the way of true knowledge.</p><p class="p3">In love. What did that even mean?</p><p class="p3">Cyrus stares idly at his notebook, in which he has penned questions that the past day has left him with. He is far more comfortable with these questions. What was Yvon attempting to achieve? Why? Was immortality possible? What precisely happened to him when he used the blood crystal, and was that the intended effect? If not, what was? And what went wrong? Were other blood crystals made? Where is <em>From the Far Reaches of Hell</em>, and why did Yvon not possess it?</p><p class="p3">Therese sighs heavily, making Cyrus look up. Her eyes flutter open.</p><p class="p3">"Awake, are you?" he says gently.</p><p class="p3">"Yes, Professor," she says. She starts to sit up, and he pushes his notebook aside to reach out and help her. Once settled against a pillow, she fusses with her hair until it looks exactly the same as far as Cyrus can tell, then rests her hands in her lap. She looks him over, as though searching for injuries.</p><p class="p3">"Therese..." Cyrus says. He ought to ask how she feels, but those questions don't quite form, and he isn't sure that he could ask them without the tone going wrong. He is suspicious of his every word, with Primrose's question in his head. "Coming all this way, you had a reason, yes? I—I must know what you saw and heard."</p><p class="p3">"Yes, Professor." Therese clasps her hands together and looks away. For a moment, she seems too overcome to speak, but steels herself with a deep breath. "After you left the academy, I heard the headmaster talking to someone in his office. I couldn't make out the other voice, but they were talking about you. They were saying..." She breaks off, her face crumpling. When she regains her composure, she says, "They said they would see you dead."</p><p class="p3">"And so you came all the way here to warn me."</p><p class="p3">"Yes, Professor," she says. Every time she says <em>Professor</em>, she steals a glance at him.</p><p class="p3">"I see," he says. With each passing moment it is clear that Therese is okay, but perhaps more shaken than she wants to show. "As a teacher, the safety of my students is of the utmost importance to me, and as such, I must scold you for your recklessness."</p><p class="p3">"I understand, Professor." Therese's face falls as she glances at him.</p><p class="p3">"But," he says, lightly touching the bump on his head. "It is also clear that were it not for your actions, I would have died in that dark pit. And so, as a man, I owe you a debt of gratitude. Thank you, Therese. Truly, from the bottom of my heart."</p><p class="p3">Therese blushes. The color is flattering to her, Cyrus thinks, particularly as it banishes the pallor that had clung to her since Yvon's. It wasn't clear if Yvon had meant to simply kill her, or had in fact begun attempts to drain her blood; to see a healthy pink return to her skin is gratifying. He is about to say as much when he pictures Primrose looking at him, dumbfounded at his naiveté. Instead he begins to gather the items that he had scattered when she woke.</p><p class="p3">"I... I think we've talked enough for the day. You should rest," he says, momentarily flustered into forgetting the reason he had been waiting here.</p><p class="p3">"Wait, Professor," she says, and her glance turns into a gaze. Still blushing. He pauses. He is beginning to have a strange, anxious response to the word Professor. "The headmaster also said there was a place he would go, once you were—" She cuts off with a strangled, anxious sound.</p><p class="p3">"He failed, Therese. It's okay." Cyrus settles back into his chair, papers gathered in his hands. Therese only looks at him, face pinched with worry. "There are much larger things at play here than my safety, Therese. I must know, and if you do not tell me, it will only increase the danger—to myself, and possibly the entire continent."</p><p class="p3">Therese only covers her mouth with her clenched hands. "But if you would simply return to Atlasdam—"</p><p class="p3">"I cannot, so long as this danger persists," Cyrus says. "Besides, my dear girl, you see that I do not embark on these journeys alone, yes? My companions will accompany me to face this danger."</p><p class="p3">"She's very pretty," Therese mumbles.</p><p class="p3">"More importantly, Primrose is lethal with a dagger, and Tressa's storms can take out a legion of monsters. And Alfyn is there to heal us if we need it," Cyrus says. He reaches unthinkingly to pull her hands from their painful clasp, and squeezes one briefly. "Now what did the headmaster say?"</p><p class="p3">Therese looks down at their joined hands, then slowly pulls hers away. "The headmaster said he was headed to the town of Duskbarrow."</p><p class="p3">"Thank you, Therese." Cyrus jots the name down. He truly is fond of the girl, and because of that, hopes that Primrose is wrong. He hopes he is being overcautious. If she feels something for him—he feels nothing when he looks at her, nothing he doesn't feel when he looks at almost anyone passing. Curiosity, yes, and caring, but there should be passion, a longing he can't put into words, a fire that won't be quenched. He should look at her and want her to grab his collar and—Cyrus stands and clears his throat. "I should let you rest. We shall have to continue on soon, but I will arrange for someone to look after you and see you safely home."</p><p class="p3">"Thank you, Professor," Therese says as he turns away. He grimaces at the sad, sweet tone of her voice.</p><p class="p2">❈</p><p class="p3">Though Cyrus suspects time is of the essence, he is at first unwilling to leave Stonegard. This, after all, is where Therion knew would be. If he is attempting to rejoin them, this is where he will come. They have barely been here long enough to give him a chance to get to Bolderfall and back, much less incorporate any possible delays or troubles. They had better stay.</p><p class="p3">"We can leave a note in every tavern for him if we need to," Tressa says. "But that guy, your old headmaster, was scary, and if someone else can do that, we've got to stop him."</p><p class="p3">Cyrus hasn't even told them that he knows his destination, knows that it is in the north, much less the name of the town.</p><p class="p3">"Not to mention there's the likelihood he ain't rejoining us. You know how he is," Alfyn says. "I don't like it, but that doesn't change it."</p><p class="p3">"It wouldn't hurt anything..." Cyrus says. And he thinks of the other thing Therion had said before leaving. <em>If I don't catch up, assume I'm dead!</em> Cyrus cannot. He cannot assume that. If he doesn't leave Stonegard, then Therion could still be coming.</p><p class="p3">They move to the cheapest inn, starting to run low of money despite Tressa's skills. Cyrus hears that Therese has departed for Atlasdam; he hadn't gone back to check on her, letting her think they left when he said. He consults with bookbinders and local historians, and learns things he has no immediate use for, about illicit tomes and the history of Yvon's family, as well as rumors about what will happen to that mansion in upper Stonegard.</p><p class="p3">Once it becomes clear that Cyrus isn't pressing them on, Alfyn and Tressa leave for the coast, as Alfyn has heard of a strange illness spreading and wants to help—or learn, or both. Cyrus admires his drive, and does not leave Stonegard.</p><p class="p3">Cyrus begins to write his thoughts about the mine, and what he didn't see. His obsession is renewed in the thief's conspicuous absence. He has no solid proof but believes that it was undoubtedly divine, from the feeling that it still provokes in Cyrus when he's drifting on the edge of sleep. That half-witnessed streak of power. The lifting of all souls in its presence. The rawness in Therion's face when he remembered it. Cyrus writes down everything he knows from the witnesses, and every sensation he remembers in himself. Book by book, he looks for other divine interventions and notes similarities. He cross-references every quality of every god, and finds that he has both too many possibilities and none at all. His facts are too vague. And the facts he wishes to have are far beyond his grasp.</p><p class="p3">"I'd like to see him again, too," Primrose says one night. "But when Alfyn and Tressa return, we have to leave. This book of yours is a danger to everyone. Therion... is only a danger to himself."</p><p class="p3">"That is not true, but I understand," Cyrus says. Stonegard has been quiet, just the two of them. The slow passage of time, anchored in one place, with no questing or fighting, has made Cyrus's denial obvious, and weak, and Primrose has grown impatient. "He is dead, or he is not coming, or something has befallen him to keep him away. In any case, remaining in Stonegard will do nothing except delay the recovery of this dangerous book."</p><p class="p3">Alfyn and Tressa return with much less of a story than Cyrus expected; Alfyn has little to say about his week on the coast except for the young girls who paid him in seashells, though Tressa's glance says there's more to it. Tressa, for her part, says that in a month she absolutely <em>must</em> return to the outer islands for a massive auction that she thought someone had made up to mock her, but it was all the buzz among the vendors in Goldshore. All she needs is the perfect item to sell. Cyrus does not understand anything about her aims, but he congratulates her nonetheless before asking, to everyone's relief, if they're ready to set off again straightaway.</p><p class="p3">Leaving Stonegard gives Cyrus a sinking feeling, no matter how confidently he had made up his mind. Perhaps it's only the idea of further pursuing <em>From the Far Reaches of Hell</em>.</p><p class="p3">They put the highlands behind them and travel quickly through the sunlands. Primrose has a particular distaste for the region, and pushes them onward as fast as they can bear under the brutal sun.</p><p class="p3">In the riverlands, they camp at the edge of a wooded area, about two days' travel from Alfyn's home. When Clearbrook is mentioned, inevitably their unintentional extended stay is referenced—then told, at last, in more detail to Primrose, along with stories like Therion's imitation of a merchant. Which leads to Alfyn and Cyrus both wondering, again, what the thief is doing now, without them.</p><p class="p3">"Did you fret this much after I left?" Primrose asks.</p><p class="p3">"We had word of you after," Cyrus protests.</p><p class="p3">"And you didn't promise you'd ever see us again," Alfyn adds.</p><p class="p3">"Therion's not that great," Tressa says.</p><p class="p3">"That's not the point," Cyrus says.</p><p class="p3">"So you agree?"</p><p class="p3">"I do not," Cyrus says firmly. "But it has no bearing on our concern."</p><p class="p3">"So you like him," Tressa says.</p><p class="p3">"Yes," Cyrus says.</p><p class="p3">"I do, too," Alfyn says. "He's a tough nut to crack, but I liked him straightaway."</p><p class="p3">"You like everyone straightaway," Primrose says. Alfyn frowns but can't disagree.</p><p class="p3">"Look, he's a decent guy to fight beside, and I had some fun knock-down arguments with him about thieving and valuation, but like him? No way," Tressa says. "Why on earth do you like him?"</p><p class="p3">Cyrus touches his lip, then turns it into idly scratching his cheek. "He's incredibly bright when you give him the chance to show it. He has a wickedly sharp sense of humor," Cyrus says. Tressa shakes her head in disbelief. "And while I recovered in Clearbrook, he was by my side perhaps more than anyone. When he didn't have to be, I mean."</p><p class="p3">"He'd probably threaten you right now for implying he's nice," Tressa says with a smirk.</p><p class="p3">"Nice? Hm. I don't think that's right," Cyrus says, but he doesn't know what would be right. The others start to toss around adjectives, and not just for Therion. Cyrus ends up being labeled as oblivious but enthusiastic, and that sours the game for him. Though Alfyn is universally declared both gentle and fearless, and a close look at him afterward suggests that he isn't sure about the outcome either. Strange to hear what others think of you so explicitly. The game is only redeemed slightly in Cyrus's mind when his thoughts turn to describing Therion, but only for himself. Not nice, no. Clever and guarded, perhaps. Bright and sharp, like a blade. Missing and missed.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i don't think i'll ever get to it, but i did consider a related work detailing Prim and H'aanit falling in love over a stabbing.</p><p>i have several conflicting feelings about Therese. I picked up a good bit of dialog from the game for that scene because it bothers me That Much that I was trying to fix it</p><p>i like to think Therese went back to Atlasdam better understanding how much of an idiot Cyrus is, and how much better she can do. She then hooked up with Princess Mary herself. (eta: it has been pointed out to me that mary and therese are distantly related. So perhaps a hot palace guard, instead)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. the flame guides us true</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p3">After more than a week in Bolderfall, Therion has fallen back into old habits, though he knows he should leave. It's just—nothing presses him forward. He knows that Heathcote has errands to run before meeting him in that distant town, and Therion can't see much point in hurrying ahead of him, only to wait in Darius's shadow. He can't see the point in going to Stonegard, when he came here in order to <em>not</em> go look for the tome with Cyrus and the others. So he slinks through Bolderfall and listens, steals indiscriminately, and leaves the useless takings in the gutter. The sunset is deep red one night, like everything is bathed in blood. He does not think of blood, not his own, nor that of others'.</p>
<p class="p3">"What will we do?" he hears in the tavern, from a young woman with her head in her hands. It's nothing unusual, to hear a lament in lower Bolderfall. But she's pristine compared to the sort Therion is used to seeing. And she is half of a very odd couple.</p>
<p class="p3">"We shall press on," the man says, who is as road-weary as Therion and would blend in as another brawler in town if not for his carriage. Some sort of honorable sellsword, then.</p>
<p class="p3">"I don't understand how all the money is gone. The bag was still latched!" The woman sits up and looks at her partner with distress. "I'm sure they need it, but so do we!"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion had almost checked out until her last sentence. She's sure <em>they</em> need it? Therion is sure he took it. And he is starting to feel a smidge guilty about that. He wouldn't normally take everything, but from the handful he got, he honestly didn't think it <em>was</em> everything. All in one hidden pocket, honestly, she was almost asking to lose it.</p>
<p class="p3">"Perhaps someone in town could use my services. My search can hold for a few days more," the man says.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion sits up. He says, loud enough, "What services are those?"</p>
<p class="p3">Both look to him.</p>
<p class="p3">"I'm just saying, if it's fighting, hardly anyone pays, and pardon my language, lady, but if it's fucking, well, you're a particular type, that's all. The lady'd be more popular, but from the garb, I doubt that's your tack," Therion says. The woman blinks, quite a lot, like she can see his words and doesn't care for them. The man only raises an eyebrow.</p>
<p class="p3">"Fighting," he says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Shit, then," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"You know the town well?" the man asks.</p>
<p class="p3">"Enough to hate it," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Would you join us for a drink? I imagine we could use some advice."</p>
<p class="p3">"You don't have any money," Therion says, and gestures at their empty table. He sighs. Then he talks briefly with the barmaid, and several drinks and two piping hot hand pies appear.</p>
<p class="p3">"Oh! This is far too kind," the woman says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Everyone gets one lucky break," he says, spending their own money on them. "I'm Therion."</p>
<p class="p3">"I'm Ophilia," she says. "This is Olberic. We're both in the middle of long journeys and could use any help you might provide. There's no cathedral nearby, you see, but once I get to one, I'll be able to refresh our coffers, I'm sure."</p>
<p class="p3">"You're a cleric," Therion says, stating the obvious.</p>
<p class="p3">"We are on our way to Victor's Hollow, but perhaps we should return to Saintsbridge's cathedral. I don't believe there is more than a parish church in Victor's Hollow," Olberic says, more to Ophilia than Therion.</p>
<p class="p3">"It's a small church, but they're pretty lively. You'd be surprised how many warriors and sellswords are devout to the flame," Therion says. He catches Olberic's eye. "Or maybe you wouldn't."</p>
<p class="p3">"You know the town, too?" Ophilia asks.</p>
<p class="p3">"I've traveled most of the continent," Therion says. He can feel Olberic inspecting him. He knows how young he still looks. "Look, you're not gonna make your money back here. But I've got to head north soon. Maybe we can strike up a deal."</p>
<p class="p3">"We would more than pay you back for your assistance, as soon as we're able," Olberic says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Sure," Therion says. "But believe it or not, I don't think money's everything. And like I said: sounds like our paths are side by side for a minute. So what's the harm?"</p>
<p class="p3">A tiny part of himself is screaming that he's an idiot, about to screw himself all over again, wasting his time with people who're going to slow him down and why is he <em>offering</em> anyway—but the voice doesn't quite sound like his own anymore. It's easier to ignore.</p>
<p class="p2">❈</p>
<p class="p3">Before they leave the cliftlands, Therion sniffs out a secret between the two of them. The way that Olberic protects her. The way that she checks her pack, and the lantern case locked to it. It's subtle, but persistent. When he finally asks, figuring he should know since he's traveling with them, Ophilia looks embarrassed.</p>
<p class="p3">"Is it so obvious? It seemed unwise to tell a stranger in a tavern... You might have been looking to trick us out of whatever else we still had, but I know better now," she says, casting a smile Therion's way. "I carry Aelfric's Lanthorn, to kindle the Sacred Flame across the land."</p>
<p class="p3">Therion is struck dumb. Even he's heard of this pilgrimage, though he hadn't known it was happening now. He's seen a Sacred Flame before, in a cathedral, but it's strange to think of it as something that sits on the ground by Ophilia's feet as they stop for a meal.</p>
<p class="p3">"It is no burden, does not slow me, and requires no extra protection," she says, the last part toward Olberic.</p>
<p class="p3">"Do not think of it as extra protection, but the service of one who would honor the Flame," Olberic says, and the conversation begins to drift. Therion doesn't ask any of the questions he's thought of. They'll keep, if they're worth asking. He does think, passingly, that Cyrus would be insufferable at Ophilia's admission, and none of them would get any rest from his inquiry.</p>
<p class="p3">As they travel, Therion tends to scout ahead or fall behind Olberic and Ophilia, keeping conveniently to himself. In the Whisperwood, he trails them more and more, the better to spot rustles from beasts and call out a warning. After a few skirmishes, Therion's less worried about warning, and decides to hang back and wait until he's needed. Olberic is truly a one-man army, cutting down bandits and wild creatures with a broad swing of his blade, or pinning them with the polearm he carries like a walking stick. If that were all, Therion would drag Ophilia to safety and wait for the field to clear, but she turns out to be fierce in her own way. He quickly sees her, in many ways, as Primrose inverted. Most blatantly: she wields the magic of light like it is a part of her, where Primrose darkened the field. The flame and the shadow; the cleric and the dancer. Where Primrose was reticent about her past, Ophilia speaks of it easily, telling of her own losses and difficulties in passing, like they are no worse than what anyone might face. Where Primrose would hold her tongue throughout an argument, then drop a conclusion about whatever the group had been discussing, Ophilia starts conversations with small questions, one by one, piece by piece—not to lead you to her answer, but to your own. Therion noticed this while they were still in Bolderfall, gathering a smattering of funds before departing, and he tries to avoid it by not answering questions at all. He's only mostly successful.</p>
<p class="p3">Because he avoids answering, he doesn't tell them that he used to travel with others, or describe the weak reason he had for leaving. He doesn't have to explain who Darius was without explaining who Darius <em>was,</em> because they weren't in Wellspring to see. Nor does he have to say a word about where he spent a night, or answer questions about a kiss that meant nothing, or a talent abandoned. The more he doesn't have to answer, the more he thinks about these unspoken things.</p>
<p class="p3">Soon, they are more lost in the Whisperwood than two-thirds of them would dare to voice, but when they pause for a meal, Ophilia quietly asks, "We've lost the path, haven't we?"</p>
<p class="p3">"We can work backward," Therion says reluctantly.</p>
<p class="p3">"I believe we must have missed a stone marker," Olberic says. "Perhaps yesterday."</p>
<p class="p3">Therion groans, but doesn't argue. Instead, he finishes gnawing at the dried meat he'd pulled out, and takes a gulp of water. His waterskin is getting low, and he offers to fill the others' at a nearby stream if they need it.</p>
<p class="p3">"Why, yes! Thank you, Therion," Ophilia says, beaming up at him.</p>
<p class="p3">At the stream, he checks that the water is unspoiled, then lets it burble over the waterskins one at a time to fill them. Squatting on his heels, hands in the cool stream, he frowns at nothing. Offering to refill water. Please and thank you. No smart remark at getting lost, no blame tossed around. Since when does it feel cruel to snap at someone for a problem like this? Since it's Ophilia and Olberic. Since he spoke with Cordelia. Since traveling with Alfyn.</p>
<p class="p3">This isn't like him at all, he thinks, and splashes angrily at the water. Some of Ophilia's spills out, droplets darkening his sleeves.</p>
<p class="p3">Then he thinks: No—holding back cruelty, that isn't like <em>Darius</em>. It's been ten years since Therion was Therion Without Darius, and even that was just some kid who could pick pockets. So who's to say what's like him? He submerges the waterskin again to fill it.</p>
<p class="p3">The water from his impulsive splash dries on his sleeves slowly, like it had before, when Cyrus coaxed him into remembering. The last thing he wants to do is remember, but it's impossible not to. Cyrus under the trees, trying so hard not to spook him out of memory. Kneeling in the mouse-ear clover, the weight of him as Therion helped him up. Yelling at him in the cave outside Wellspring. Under the tapestry and stars. Good that Therion left. He needs to focus, now, on Darius.</p>
<p class="p3">Later, when they've backtracked a bit, Ophilia drops back to join Therion. "May I ask you something?"</p>
<p class="p3">"I don't see how I could stop you," Therion says. She looks a little concerned, nervous maybe.</p>
<p class="p3">"I understand if you don't want to answer. And if you find the question silly," she says. He waves his hand to get her to spit it out. "Why are you a thief?"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion shrugs. "Kept me alive. I'm good at it. Why're you a cleric?" He expects her to react to the turnaround, but she considers the question.</p>
<p class="p3">"I could say that it is as simple as—the archbishop took me in when I had nothing, and I grew up in the Church. It seemed a natural path, when it was all around me. It felt like a blessing from the gods that the Clements embraced me, saving me from the darkness I had been thrust into. At times, I admit, I wonder if I chose it out of guilt," Ophilia says. They keep pace, but come nowhere near catching up to Olberic. By design, Therion thinks. Ophilia is quiet for a few more yards. "But Archbi— Father encouraged all of our interests. He would have been as glad to send me to an academy, or even a simple kitchen, if that was what made me happy! Yet I felt drawn to this."</p>
<p class="p3">"It kept you alive," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">Ophilia nods with a wry smile.</p>
<p class="p3">They walk along in silence. Olberic briefly dispatches a slavering ratkin, tossing the body into the underbrush to be eaten by scavengers. The forest is familiar as they retread. Before nightfall, they will arrive at the location where Olberic and Therion have agreed they went astray.</p>
<p class="p3">By his side, Ophilia says, "Are you from Bolderfall?"</p>
<p class="p3">"I'm from nowhere," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"You may not remember, but you are from somewhere," Ophilia says. She's already heard some of his sorry tale, meager answers given to her own story. "But that only matters if you want it to. I suppose the better question might be: Is Bolderfall home?"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion helps Ophilia over a fallen tree in the path, as Olberic had done going the other way.</p>
<p class="p3">"I've lived there a while now," Therion finally says.</p>
<p class="p3">"You wouldn't call it home?"</p>
<p class="p3">"I'm from nowhere," he says again. Even while walking, Ophilia watches him with wide, steady eyes. Her interest is so genuine, and so caring, that he suspects his brief answers are killing her. He leaves it for a bit. He begins to feel like answering questions might be easier than not. When she doesn't push, he says, "I figure home feels different than that shithole. Sorry."</p>
<p class="p3">"How should home feel?"</p>
<p class="p3">"You tell me."</p>
<p class="p3">Ophilia considers this as well. "I consider Flamesgrace home, because it holds my family, and memories of growing up safe. Because when I walk through the town, I see people who I've lived side by side with, who helped me, and I've helped in return. For me, that's what home feels like. The faces of the people I love," she says, her voice wobbling a little at the end. "I only hope I get to see them all again."</p>
<p class="p3">Therion has no response. To any of it. He continues in silence. There is no one in Bolderfall that he feels that way about. There is no one in Orsterra that he feels that way about. No one.</p>
<p class="p2">❈</p>
<p class="p3">In the evening, after they make camp, Olberic draws in the dirt, creating a map of what he thinks the correct path is. Therion scouts ahead in the twilight. He had come through the Whisperwood not that long ago, but the forest changes so rapidly that he's had to look for different go-bys, these past few days. He feels more confident about their new path, and says so upon his return.</p>
<p class="p3">While the others rest, Therion sits up to watch the fire go to embers, and to listen for any beasts or bandits in the trees. To pass the time, he pulls a string from his pouch and starts to play with it, making shapes, twisting and retwisting, contorting his fingers. Since those days outside Noblecourt, he's never had another problem with his wrist, but he is alert to it, and so: exercises. The string twists and twists in the dark. He stares into the crackling fire, low but still mesmerizingly bright when it captures his gaze. In the afterimage, he sees the sparkle of water, like he's staring down into a flowing river. Like he's outside Clearbrook, with Cyrus, sick and full of memory.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion puts the string away.</p>
<p class="p3">In the morning, Clearbrook remains on his mind. Or rather, the mine does. That fight has become much clearer since that day by the river, the sensations uncomfortable but easy to recall. If pressed, could he summon that power? If that's how it works, maybe, but not if it depends on a god liking you. Therion hardly thinks whichever god it was gave away a drop of power for <em>Therion's</em> sake. He wasn't the one dying, after all.</p>
<p class="p3">In the afternoon, Ophilia drops back to join him again. She doesn't start a conversation, only nods at him and matches his pace.</p>
<p class="p3">"Is Olberic too chatty for you?" Therion finally asks. Ophilia laughs, like chimes ascending.</p>
<p class="p3">"I felt like walking with you. Is that so bad?"</p>
<p class="p3">"More weird."</p>
<p class="p3">"It could be I simply want tales of your exploits. Tell me of your greatest heist," Ophilia says, a teasing note in her voice.</p>
<p class="p3">"What if it was from a church?" Therion challenges.</p>
<p class="p3">"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that!"</p>
<p class="p3">"It's just a building."</p>
<p class="p3">"Hmph," Ophilia says, and scrunches up her face. Then she relaxes and walks quietly. "Is it just a building to you?"</p>
<p class="p3">"It's not like you lot keep the gods in there," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"That's true. They wouldn't fit."</p>
<p class="p3">Therion blinks, then stares at her. "Was that a joke or blasphemy?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Well, they wouldn't! Not metaphysically."</p>
<p class="p3">"Meta-what."</p>
<p class="p3">"Oh, Church talk, never mind." She giggles.</p>
<p class="p3">"That flame of yours," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Mm-hmm?"</p>
<p class="p3">"It's genuinely Aelfric's," he says. She nods. They walk on a few paces. There is an awful lot about the Church and the gods that he sort of knew but didn't think about. The Church, to Therion, has always been a free meal, maybe an orphanage, a warm place to ignore someone talking. It never meant more than the physical to him, and now he's walking alongside a flickering piece of a god. "Have you heard of talents?"</p>
<p class="p3">"I have," she says. Therion notices how her hand twitches on her bag. "Why do you ask?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Do you think they're real?"</p>
<p class="p3">"If they are, they are beyond the modern Church's realm," she says. She chews her lip as they walk. "The early Church had stories of talents being bestowed, sometimes on saints, sometimes on ordinary people, but there's been nothing of the kind for generations."</p>
<p class="p3">"Why would they stop?" Therion asks, thinking of the way the shrine had been overgrown, the stones near the entrance falling down, and vines creeping down the walls. Farther in had remained pristine, as though the presence of Alephan's shrine had shrunk back and back over the years.</p>
<p class="p3">"Perhaps in those long-ago days, the world was darker, and the gods wanted to share some of their divinity with mortals to help us survive. And as we found some... civilization, and peace, they could step away," Ophilia says, then shakes her head. "The gods are outside of our understanding, Therion. They are powerful beyond measure, but they can be fickle. I don't know why talents were lost for so long."</p>
<p class="p3">He notices that she also talks as though they're no longer lost, but a rustling interrupts his thoughts. Olberic plucks a bandit from his hiding spot. Three more burst out from behind trees and attack Therion and Ophilia. Ophilia whispers "Ready?" to Therion, and he drops behind her. With a flick of her staff and a string of words, beams of light cascade down on all four bandits like catastrophic pieces of the sun. Therion takes advantage of their blindness and disarray to dart between them, disarming each while picking their pockets. Once he's out of the way, having shoved each bandit toward the east side of the path, he turns to see the swing of Olberic's blade catch the sun.</p>
<p class="p3">"I feel bad," Ophilia says wearily, after they walk away.</p>
<p class="p3">"I understand," Olberic says. "It isn't a clean business. I take no pleasure in defending ourselves to such ends."</p>
<p class="p3">"They'd kill us if they had the chance," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"That they would."</p>
<p class="p3">"I wish we could stop and take care of the bodies," Ophilia says.</p>
<p class="p3">"You want to bury them?" Therion asks, trying not to scoff.</p>
<p class="p3">"Having chosen a wicked life doesn't make them any less human. They deserve some dignity, I think." Ophilia watches Olberic's back as he starts to outpace them. They both know the story of him and Hornburg, the betrayal by his brother-in-arms and the murder of his king. Therion wonders what Olberic would think of allowing some dignity to his liege's murderer. Therion wonders if Darius has any dignity at all.</p>
<p class="p3">Some time later, they rest their feet, and pass around food. Therion had found a store of jerky on one of the bandits, and he doles it out. It's stringy and dry, but edible if sucked on.</p>
<p class="p3">Soon, a sign indicating Victor's Hollow appears at a fork in the road.</p>
<p class="p3">"We ought to be there by dark," Therion says, reading the notches on the signpost. As they start down the road, Ophilia takes her new usual spot beside Therion. Olberic stays ahead of them, but not as far as before.</p>
<p class="p3">"Soon, you'll have safely guided us to Victor's Hollow, Therion. You said you'll show us what you know of the town, but what then for you? Farther north?" Ophilia asks.</p>
<p class="p3">"A piss poor guide, getting lost in the forest," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"The marker was knocked down. That's hardly something you could control," Ophilia says.</p>
<p class="p3">"I have business elsewhere," Therion says. On the one hand, Northreach. But then: Stonegard still niggles at him. It's far too late; they would have long since left.</p>
<p class="p3">"Could we return the favor, and help you in your tasks?"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion laughs harshly. "No."</p>
<p class="p3">"Oh. I didn't mean to offend."</p>
<p class="p3">They walk in silence through the shade of the trees, Olberic looming in front of them. Therion isn't offended, and he absolutely isn't concerned about that tone in Ophilia's voice when she replied. It was naive of her to think she could help, and that he would want her help. It was <em>childish</em>, to consider staying by his side on the road. As though he was to be trusted and repaid.</p>
<p class="p3"><em>We're sort of a team, after everything</em>. Therion unclenches his hand from the strap of his bag. A part of him remembers Alfyn, back in Clearbrook, and thinks—see? Can't be trusted. After everything, he ran away. But he also thinks that maybe he could manage it again. He hates that word, team, but they were.</p>
<p class="p3">"Sorry," he says. Ophilia makes a curious sound. "For laughing. It just seems stupid and dangerous for you to come. That's all. You don't know me."</p>
<p class="p3">"I don't know where you're going, that's true." Ophilia sighs, and drops the topic.</p>
<p class="p3">"I cannot promise without knowing what I will learn in Victor's Hollow," Olberic says from ahead, "but if my blade can help you on your journey, and I am able, I would continue on with you."</p>
<p class="p3">Therion says nothing to that.</p>
<p class="p2">❈</p>
<p class="p3">In Victor's Hollow, Therion finds himself as he was in Bolderfall: without occupation, but with no desire to leave quite yet. Olberic needs little help from him, though the occasional snippet of information comes in handy. Ophilia ambles through the town doing good deeds, which Therion sometimes watches. Mostly to make sure no one else is taking advantage of her good nature.</p>
<p class="p3">It's slow going, while Olberic learns what it'll take to speak to Gustav, and then works his way into the tournement. One evening, Olberic lets Ophilia attend to a sore muscle in his shoulder in a corner of the tavern, and Therion tries not to make any inappropriate comments. In truth, between Ophilia's wholesomeness and Olberic's stoic nobility, even the comments in his head feel off-kilter. They work well together in a way that Therion appreciates. Neither snoops as much as Alfyn, lectures as much as Cyrus, or squeals as much as Tressa. Perhaps, depending what Gustav reveals, Therion will tell them where he has to head next.</p>
<p class="p3">When Olberic finally shakes Ophilia off, she rests in a chair next to Therion. Some time passes in which she is noticeably quiet.</p>
<p class="p3">"Something has been troubling me," she says. She turns to Therion. "On the road, you asked me about talents. Why?"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion's surprised. He'd half-forgotten about the brief conversation, considering everything else they'd managed to talk about. And then he's doubly surprised at that thought—that they'd talked so much he could forget entire topics, and without him growing aggravated.</p>
<p class="p3">"I was a little deceptive. I've seen one," Therion admits. "But that's not why I asked."</p>
<p class="p3">"You have?" Ophilia says, and glances at Olberic.</p>
<p class="p3">"Why did you ask?" Olberic says.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion sighs and leans on the table. He runs a hand through his hair, and stays like that, face averted. All he wants is to find a way to ask about that moment in the mine, the nameless touch of an unknown god, without asking about it. Without describing it. There is some way to get there from talents, if he were as clever with words as Cyrus. If he understood it, if he could capture it in a charm on a chain, could he call it down whenever he needed it? That power coursing through him, and the way he felt after, Therion would only use it in the most dire circumstances—but he suspects dire circumstances are coming.</p>
<p class="p3">He says, weakly, "I don't know much about the gods, I guess."</p>
<p class="p3">His admission is met with silence. The noise of the pub continues, of course, but he imagines that Olberic and Ophilia are sharing a pitying look at his ignorance.</p>
<p class="p3">"Did you know that one of the gods is known as the Prince of Thieves?" Ophilia asks. Therion looks up. She has a small smile on her face.</p>
<p class="p3">"And you've been judging me all this time," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"I was taken aback at first. Just because a god embraces something, doesn't mean I like it. There is a god of war—do you think I am in favor of war?" Ophilia says quickly. War had orphaned her, and memories of that time troubled her still, sometimes, in the night. "Taking the possessions of another seems to me to cause more harm than good... but then I remembered Aeber."</p>
<p class="p3">The name catches Therion strangely. Maybe he's heard it before, sure, but it isn't like this is some old memory resurfacing. More like a thread caught in his chest, a secret bell, ringing.</p>
<p class="p3">"Oh," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">The others look at him. He must have a strange expression on his face. If forced to speak in this moment, Therion might simply start laughing. Echoes of feelings ricochet—the fury and despair, the emptiness after, days and days of an uncertain tension, the ecstasy of movement and the hollowness of fear. And he wants to throw things, but that too is an echo of the past.</p>
<p class="p3">Aeber, he thinks.</p>
<p class="p3">"Why did I never go to church?" he mutters.</p>
<p class="p3">Ophilia smiles gently at Therion, in a way that completely fails to annoy him. "Well, if you want to know about Aeber..."</p>
<p class="p3">How badly Therion does want to know. But he refuses to be eager, and waves her off that night.</p>
<p class="p3">The next few days in Victor's Hollow, Therion wanders and eavesdrops, then finds Olberic to pass along information about the fighters he may encounter. Stoic as a boulder, Olberic takes in the gossip, and thanks Therion. In between, Therion wanders the town and mulls over all that he'd talked about with Ophilia, from the Church to Aeber. As they pass time in Victor's Hollow, she tells him more, in pieces, without him asking. How Aeber was a more elusive god, in the ancient days when the gods were present; what Aeber's blessings and acts looked like; that Aeber was not only the god of thieves, but of messengers, rabbits, poetry, storms, fire, retribution, and the moon.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion also, completely on accident, picks up a book that had been abandoned in the inn. He curls up in an inconspicuous spot in town to read it—a tree with a crooked branch, within earshot of the tavern and along a main enough road that it would be easy to hop down and find Olberic, in the unlikely event the swordsman could use some help. The noise in the area is significant, but somehow Therion finds it focusing. All those voices and the clatter and the distant fighting in the arena melt into a vague sensation of town around him, and his habit of noticing everything has so much to focus on that he narrows down to the words on the page. He'd learned to read adequately thanks to a particularly determined passing scholar at an early orphanage, but it took a while for him to see the use of it. Not until he understood bookkeeping, and secrets, and blackmail. Though he enjoyed a good bard or a play, reading a book had a few too many barriers for him to think of it as something he might do. You had to get the book, after all, and find a time and place to sit with it, and focus enough on the words on the page for them to matter, and what did you get in the end? A bit of story, maybe.</p>
<p class="p3">The book from the inn is verse, dancing across the pages, with subtle music that starts to carry through his mind, weaving the story of a made-up knight and an impossible love, a quest and a dragon, a ship setting sail, and prize after prize carried back home—Therion doesn't finish the book in one sitting, or two, because he keeps revisiting pages. The words are such a song. But he finishes, and shortly after finds himself idling through a market street.</p>
<p class="p3">"Are you looking for another epic poem like <em>Onfæreld</em>?" The word <em>poem</em> catches Therion. The bookseller nods at the book under Therion's arm.</p>
<p class="p3">"Dunno," Therion mutters. He hadn't particularly meant to browse for a book, but he'd passed the cluster of stalls and slowed, and stopped in front of this one. His eyes flick over the titles. It's difficult to be certain what any of them are. It's not like jewels or weapons, you can't tell from a glance. Usually he scans down a short but growing checklist of signs of high value tomes, uncertain from titles alone which ones might be rare. Cyrus used to talk endlessly about the contents, less so about the trappings, but Therion hade picked up a few new pointers from him. He runs a finger over the covers nearest him. Decent leather but amateurishly bound.</p>
<p class="p3">"Perhaps you want something a little different from your own life?" the bookseller suggests. He eyes Therion. The worn and scuffed boots, the sword, the one dagger visible in a hip sheath, the scrapes on his hands and the bangle he can barely hide. "A little less of adventure and fighting?"</p>
<p class="p3">"What's that mean?" Therion asks.</p>
<p class="p3">"There are love stories, of course."</p>
<p class="p3">Therion laughs.</p>
<p class="p3">"And travels, discovery. Myths, and true accounts, too. Ah," the bookseller says, reaching across several rows of books. He runs his fingers across the exposed spines. "These are historical, and these scientific. This one in particular is a better read than most—a fascinating study of the popularity of various magic and talents throughout the regions of Orsterra, with theories as to—"</p>
<p class="p3">Something echoes inside Therion, and he grimaces. He starts to turn away with a small dismissing wave of his hand. The crowd is thick and he has surprising trouble finding a quick way through. Behind him, the bookseller keeps talking, well aware when a customer is a captive audience, and quickens his patter.</p>
<p class="p3">"A book of ballads, with notations for the tune? Folktales from a far distant land? Or this, a compelling tale of betrayal and redemption—?"</p>
<p class="p3">Despite himself, Therion's attention twitches back. The bookseller is a sharp vendor, for sure, because he catches it and doubles down. Too bad he misreads the reaction.</p>
<p class="p3">"It's dramatically told, with the betrayal heartbreaking, a painful account of innocence not lost but stolen, and the long path to salvation beyond—one of my favorite tales I've been able to find! This is one of my last copies, though I could let you have it for a hundred leaves."</p>
<p class="p3">"A hundred?" Therion scoffs. But he's already turned back toward the table. His eyes scan the table again, and he nods toward a scuffed text. "That about the frostlands?"</p>
<p class="p3">"It is. A history covering the rise and fall of chiefs and kings, including the influence of magic on said falls. It's a bit dense in parts, not nearly as exciting as this one," he says, waggling the betrayal story again.</p>
<p class="p3">"Do you think I'm too stupid for it, or is that one just more expensive?" Therion asks. The bookseller smirks.</p>
<p class="p3">"True, <em>Writ in the Ice</em> is only worth about thirty leaves. But I'll give you both for one hundred and twenty."</p>
<p class="p3">"Not interested in redemption," Therion says. He can tell the tale of betrayal is a better quality tome; the leather on <em>Writ in the Ice</em> is thinned, likely repurposed, and the binding is starting to loosen. When he flicks through, he spots torn pages, stains, notes. It may as well have been one of the tomes Cyrus dragged through all their travels and battles. The other book is probably pristine, barely read, judging by the exterior.</p>
<p class="p3">Under his cloak, Therion finds his wallet to pull out a few leaves without looking. He unfolds and offers them up: thirty leaves exactly. He isn't sure, as he walks away, what he'll do with <em>Onfæreld.</em> Hold onto it until it's a burden, and discard it like the last owner. It's slim, at least, half the size of his new tome, and he's not quite ready to leave it behind. <em>Writ in the Ice</em>, the paper smooth and welcoming under his fingers, will be a noticeable weight in his bag as he treks further north, but he tells himself it'll be useful as he heads, inevitably, toward Northreach.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>growing up (mostly) in the church, ophilia must have a lot of theological knowledge and religious jokes built up. she is more than a sweetheart! she is also perfectly willing to debate the alignment of scientific development with Church doctrine or whether the gods understand jokes</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. mead loosens tongues and—</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p3">Cyrus is weary. The weariness does not come from a hard drive on a long road; no, it's not quite emanating from his body, but it infects his body. Following Tressa, he climbs the stairs into Victor's Hollow, with Primrose and Alfyn behind. No, this is a weariness that comes from the mind. Comes from others' minds, even. He never thought of it like that before, had never quite thought of himself as one to be affected by the moods of others, but he hadn't accounted for sustained companionship in travel, nor for growing accustomed to a certain lightness in said companions. Both Alfyn and Tressa were (usually) unfailingly positive, which while not necessary in any way to Cyrus's own attitude, was complementary, and was, most of all, <em>expected. </em>Now that Alfyn was withdrawn and slow to laugh, it had crept into Tressa, making her wildly swing between overcompensation and watchfulness, her push toward the markets at Victor's Hollow almost manic. Perhaps Primrose was less of a sharpened weapon than she used to be, but she could never compensate for this lack of cheer. And it all made Cyrus weary.</p>
<p class="p3">"This'll be just what we need, won't it, Alf?" Tressa says as they enter the city gate. "A bit of a treasure hunt?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Sure will," Alfyn says, and he straightens as he looks over the first stretch of Victor's Hollow. There's a lot to distract even the most melancholy mind. Shouts and clatters of all sorts come from farther in—merchants and ruffians and carts rattling and animals bleating and children shouting and enough that Cyrus can't identify half of it.</p>
<p class="p3">"You're sure you don't mind the stop?" Tressa asks Cyrus.</p>
<p class="p3">"Not at all. Duskbarrow isn't much farther to travel, and we could use a night or two of comfortable rest, I think," Cyrus says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Oh, <em>good</em>, because I want to really dig <em>in</em> to whatever the markets here might have, and it could take..." Tressa trails off, her eyes on a row of vendors in the shade of some old oak trees. And she's off, thought unfinished. With a knowing raise of the eyebrow, Primrose follows after her.</p>
<p class="p3">"And what of us?" Cyrus asks.</p>
<p class="p3">Alfyn lets out a sigh. "Think you can dig up some more info about that nasty book?"</p>
<p class="p3">"I can try," Cyrus says, "But the path seems clear to me. Will you go in search of the ill and needy?" He means it to sound light, but must not achieve it.</p>
<p class="p3">"I guess I will," Alfyn says.</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus accompanies him through the city streets, and watches as he patches up a scraped knee, chats with an old man about his bad hip, and acts rather a lot more like his old self than he had on the road. Cyrus supposes that he has a reason to, here. He must play the part of an apothecary, and to him, that includes freely given care and love as well as the medicines. If the love is a little fake, just now, he doesn't show it.</p>
<p class="p3">They wind their way aimlessly until Cyrus can hear the commotion of a tournament from a massive arena. There's no question of their interest in watching the fight among a shouting, drunken crowd—they sharply turn toward a nearby tavern for a break, instead. From the outside, Cyrus fears the tavern may be as raucous as the street, but as he opens the door, he concludes that the noise of fighting must draw all excitement outside. The interior is dim and cool. Not quiet, which would be a feat in this town, but calm enough that at least one person is curled up over a book, making Cyrus smile with a wistful fondness. He hasn't comfortably curled up with a book like that in—</p>
<p class="p3">His mind skips, heart jumps, and without thinking, he loudly says, "Therion?"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion looks up from the book.</p>
<p class="p3">"Therion!" Cyrus exclaims, and strides over. He is beyond delighted to see the thief, to such a degree that he immediately forgets to say anything about the book (which he instantly recognized as a classic poem, and could quote from at length) or to needle him for curling up like a scholar; instead Cyrus drops into the seat next to Therion and slings an arm around his shoulders. The burst of relief to see him not only alive but looking so well—peaceful in a tavern—is overwhelming. He had been pleased to encounter Primrose again, but this is so much more. "How wonderful to see you again!"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion blinks. For a moment, Cyrus has a burst of clarity that used to be rare: was this a social mis-step? Is Therion not glad, too? Had he been glad to be rid of Cyrus, after the drunken moment in Wellspring?</p>
<p class="p3">"Albright," Therion says, his mouth curling into a grin. Worry slips away from Cyrus. "So you're still alive."</p>
<p class="p3">"Ha! It takes more than a—oh. Well. You have missed a lot, haven't you?" Cyrus says. "And so have we, I imagine. We're headed north, now, after this detour to allow Tressa to search for unimaginable treasures."</p>
<p class="p3">"The kid's still ripping people off, then?" Therion leans back, not quite shaking Cyrus's hand from his shoulder. Somehow, he has made the book disappear. Alfyn takes a seat on his other side, and gazes quietly toward the bartender, who is busy at the other end of the room; it seems he has once again let some of his chipper apothecary act slide. Therion glances at him, then turns back to Cyrus and asks, "North?"</p>
<p class="p3">"To Duskbarrow, and more of this damned tome. And you? What of your travels, and the stones?" Cyrus asks.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion waves a hand. "I'm on my way. Still got this bad habit of picking up strays, got sidelined here. They're both disgustingly noble, so you'll get along."</p>
<p class="p3">"Well, tell us about 'em," Alfyn says. Therion grimaces, almost comically.</p>
<p class="p3">"An old warrior, and... a cleric."</p>
<p class="p3">Alfyn raises his eyebrows. "Have they met <em>you</em>?"</p>
<p class="p3">"I may have waited to reveal my skills 'til they already decided they liked me," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"So you still haven't told 'em, huh," Alfyn says, elbowing him. He seems to be coming back to his old self again—even if only for a bit.</p>
<p class="p3">"Just 'cause I didn't bother charming you," he says. "So, how'd you survive without me?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Shoot, where's my head?" Alfyn exclaims. "Therion, we ran into Prim!"</p>
<p class="p3">"No!" Therion jerks in surprise, then grins. "And the hunter?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Not here, but she is... a fierce person, through and through," Cyrus says. "But with the most incredible patience and gentleness when needed. I saw her charm a sparrow into singing—I swear to you that I did."</p>
<p class="p3">"Intimidating as that snow leopard she travels with. I think she could pick me up like I was nothin'," Alfyn says. He reddens a little, which Therion clearly notices, as he bursts into laughter.</p>
<p class="p3">"You'll have to make <em>special</em> friends with Primrose," Therion says slyly. "Maybe you could get to know them both a lot better."</p>
<p class="p3">Alfyn chokes on his own breath, and Therion keeps laughing while slapping his back. Cyrus grins at this unusual boisterousness in the thief.</p>
<p class="p3"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p3"> </p>
<p class="p3">Much later, they are almost the last in the tavern but not quite. Therion is buoyed by the slow evening of drinking and by the thought of all of them in one town, for one night, at least. All these people he doesn't hate. Well, save the hunter that he hasn't met, but he thinks he wouldn't hate her, either. Olberic arrived partway through dinner with somber news of his victory. Tressa is off somewhere hunting obscure treasures; after a few post-meal drinks, Ophilia excused herself, and Primrose left soon after, saying something about a nightly letter to be written.</p>
<p class="p3">Despite the hours in the tavern, they haven't shared much detail about their time apart, and Therion prefers that. What would he say? Alfyn and Olberic are at the bar, having gone to get another round and then getting into a long conversation with the bartender (Alfyn's fault, of course), but neither Therion nor Cyrus seem to care when they might return with full mugs. Therion thinks, checking his empty mug, that he should probably stop. He doesn't know the last time he's been this far in his cups. And he says so.</p>
<p class="p3">"I don't think I've ever been this drunk. I like to stay," he says, and searches for the word, "sharp. Sharp."</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus isn't as obviously loose-limbed as Therion feels, but he topples a little, into Therion's shoulder, an easy accident with them sharing a bench against a wall. "Could you still—" Cyrus says, lifting a hand and waggling his fingers, "right now? Could you?"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion considers it, briefly forgets what he's considering, and then notices Cyrus's hand, still raised, like he's dipping into a jar. "No," Therion says. "Let me try."</p>
<p class="p3">Therion starts to get up with his eyes on a stranger in blue, but Cyrus pulls him back down, laughing. Therion laughs. This is not so bad, he thinks. He can handle this. Drinking, laughing, being a little bit close, joy on another person's face when they see him. It makes him feel even drunker. It makes him feel, gods, younger than ever, an age he never got to be. Cyrus, Alfyn, Olberic—these are <em>good</em> men. Not like him and Darius. For the moment, he can trust them not to—well, 'not to try to kill him' is a low bar, but that's where he is. He can relax that fraction more, a fraction drunker. He could drink himself to oblivion and a growing part of him believes he would wake up unharmed, tucked into bed.</p>
<p class="p3">"Of course we would," Cyrus says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Course you would what."</p>
<p class="p3">"Make sure you got to the inn without harm!"</p>
<p class="p3">"What?"</p>
<p class="p3">"You said—"</p>
<p class="p3">"I said that out loud?" Therion balks. Then he laughs. And he can't stop for a minute, not until he's almost breathless, a hand on Cyrus's arm to keep him steady. Steady-ish.</p>
<p class="p3">The world feels fluid, now, like he could slip between all these people he sometimes pretends to be, the hardened thief, the god-touched compatriot, the regretful sometimes-scholar, the spinner of stories, and the man, oh, the man, sometimes he forgets that he is, underneath it all, just a man. And so is the man next to him.</p>
<p class="p3"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p3"> </p>
<p class="p3">"I miss having you as a student," Cyrus says, out of nowhere as far as Therion is concerned, from the widening of his eyes. But for Cyrus, it isn't out of nowhere. He's been missing that since Therion announced he was done learning spells from Cyrus. He has been missing Therion retroactively since the end of what had been, unknowingly, their last lesson. He has especially been missing Therion since he left on his solitary errand, after Wellspring, a black cloud over him, and since he failed to rejoin them. It's entirely possible Cyrus has been smiling, at least a little, since the moment he spotted Therion in this tavern.</p>
<p class="p3">"Nah, no, 'm better off just bein' a thief," Therion says. He sighs back into the wall. "I don't mean <em>just</em>—"</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus leans closer.</p>
<p class="p3">"Cyrus?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Therion," Cyrus says. Closer. They are not touching, not any more than before, but Cyrus can feel everything. He is not quite so oblivious as the others joke, not always. Not when his eyes are open, his nerves alert. Not when it's the right person who might be making tiny gestures, revealing layers in language. He's not a loquacious man, not like Cyrus. There are other languages. Cyrus feels the movement of Therion's chest as he breathes. A fraction closer, a fraction farther. The gust of wind when Therion blinks. The air between them, tingling. Burning, when Therion moves so slightly, a miniscule shifting of muscle, but one that moves his face closer, not farther. This is all Cyrus needs.</p>
<p class="p3">Except Therion suddenly isn't there. Therion is standing, grabbing their empty mugs and saying something about where the hell are their drinks anyway, and walking toward the bar.</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus knows that he didn't get the clues wrong, so it's a mystery that needs solving, not a drunken mistake to ignore. The mistake was to call it drunken, the other time. Perhaps. He runs a finger along his collar and slips the top button free, too warm in the noisy tavern. Somewhere there is a fresh breath of air that will make his head stop spinning, and he searches for it slowly, one inhale at a time. In no time, the others rejoin him at the table—even Tressa appears from her day of foraging in secret nooks and crannies, and immediately she's talking about all her running around town and someone she's met before, but Cyrus can't follow her. Alfyn drops an ale in front of Cyrus and crashes onto the bench. Therion sits an arm's length away, backwards in a chair. He doesn't look at Cyrus. He stares at Olberic with no expression. A talent, considering how open he was moments before.</p>
<p class="p3"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p3"> </p>
<p class="p3">"What's this Wellspring place?" Tressa asks. The mention of Wellspring had given Therion a jolt toward sobriety, but the drinks take hold again as the shock wears off. Staring at Olberic so he doesn't look at the others, he wraps his hands around the back of the chair. What's Wellspring? Nowhere. Nothing. Unimportant. Just another godsdamned place.</p>
<p class="p3">"It's a town in the sunlands, formed around an oasis. According to Gustav, that is the last place he knew Erhardt to be living. So that is where I must head," Olberic says. "In the morning, I shall see if either of the others have intentions of a similar route. But if I must go alone, I must."</p>
<p class="p3">"You know how I feel about backtracking," Therion mutters. A sound from Alfyn makes Therion glance over. For some reason (he knows the reason) he can't quite look at Cyrus. Though he is aware that Cyrus's collar is now unbuttoned. To Alfyn, he says, "I'm not goin' south again, anyway. I'll figure it out from here."</p>
<p class="p3">Therion leans on the chair, teetering forward on two legs, his toes grazing the floor for balance. And he finally looks at Cyrus, for a glimpse. He is quiet and pink-cheeked (from drink?) and also looking at Therion. For a moment—Wellspring vanishes. The tavern vanishes. Eyes blue like a winter sky.</p>
<p class="p3">Then Therion's stomach drops as the chair tilts too far, and he shifts to make it fall back into place, the legs hitting the floor with a solid clack that jars him, pieces falling together. He hadn't been sure. He hadn't, even a few minutes before. Not without knowing all the elements at play. But now, he knows he's going to tell them about Northreach, he's going to let them ask to come with him. Olberic is going south. End of the line. But the others, they're going his way. It'd be foolish not to go with them. If he can keep his shit together. And he's not entirely sure he can, drunk and thrown off by Cyrus and Alfyn and Primrose appearing out of nowhere; not entirely sure, knowing who waits in Northreach; not entirely sure, remembering the warmth of Cyrus leaning on him.</p>
<p class="p3">"Can you tell me anything about the place?" Olberic says. The conversation has gone on while Therion wasn't listening. Alfyn says something half-hearted about Wellspring, and Therion begins to laugh to himself.</p>
<p class="p3">"It's a shit place. Good luck," Therion says. "We were there for a black market. Got screwed by an old—by someone I used to know. Tried to kill me again. You probably won't run into that, though."</p>
<p class="p3">"I'm looking for a man who used to be my closest ally, before he betrayed everything we stood for," Olberic says, reminding Therion of what he already knew while sober. Therion laughs again, painfully, which only makes Olberic look sterner, but he only stops because it's not funny, it's not really laughter at all.</p>
<p class="p3">"Gods, you better take Ophilia and her flame. That place is fucking <em>cursed</em>."</p>
<p class="p3"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p3"> </p>
<p class="p3">Because he is drunk, and because Olberic's story is still new to him with gaps filling in, Cyrus doesn't try that hard to follow the details of the conversation, but he follows Therion cursing about Wellspring. He catches the way Therion says <em>tried to kill me again</em>. Again? Therion is at a strange pitch, the brightness from before turned sour, like he's joyful at the idea of what might happen to Olberic, or what had happened to him. Joyful about pain. When their eyes meet again, briefly, as Therion searches the table for a drink, Cyrus sees something that unnerves him. A wildness, or a fury, or—</p>
<p class="p3">"Excuse me," Cyrus says, sliding out from the bench. He can't look at that in Therion and not know what it is. He's too drunk, quaffing ales too fast in this reunion. He's too far gone for any of this. Olberic is a passing stranger, and Cyrus cannot help in his quest, which is what the conversation has become, and so he has no reason to stay up. Not if the alcohol is going to go dark inside him. "I think that's enough for me."</p>
<p class="p3">"G'night!" someone calls after him. He forgets to wait and see if anyone else is going to pack it in. Perhaps Tressa would have walked back with him. But he's alone when he steps outside into the brisk night air.</p>
<p class="p3">Heading toward his room in the lower part of town, Cyrus moves slowly down the steps at the end of the road. They are worn slick with age. His mind drifts to how many thousands of people must have taken these steps. After drinking. After a fight. After a long night. After courting someone else. All the lives. Then, as he hits the last step, a young man trudges past him, exhaustion dripping off of him and his arms full of books, and Cyrus is catapulted back to what feels like another life, when he was ten years younger and had not, in fact, watched his headmaster transform into a half-human monster, had not seen what dark magic could do, and how innocents like Therese could get swept up in it.</p>
<p class="p3">Then the young man is gone. Cyrus leans against the low stone wall alongside the stairs. Mostly, Cyrus has reconciled events in his mind. That was twisted, hellish magic. Yvon had chosen it. (Had he? To that extent?) There was no question of what must be done. Destroying him was necessary.</p>
<p class="p3">But still: he had <em>known</em> the man.</p>
<p class="p3">Victor's Hollow is bustling even in the middle of the night. Cyrus is hardly notable for loitering at the bottom of the steps. The night is so clear that he feels it might clear his head. He gazes up at the sky. Darker things wait in the north, and it, or the drinks, or the strange loneliness of this singular moment, draws him down and down within himself, until he is no longer seeing the stars above him, but only the memories in his own mind, and dreams of what is to come.</p>
<p class="p3">"Hey," Therion says. He appears like a ghost, on silent footsteps. Cyrus turns. With Therion a step higher, they are face to face, and Therion looks at him with almost his usual controlled detachment, but cracked by drink. A smidge of interest, or concern. "Lost?"</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus takes this to mean any number of questions, and he chooses which one he wants to answer. His voice is hoarse when he says, "I don't want to go to Duskbarrow."</p>
<p class="p3">"You're not going tonight," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"I will soon," Cyrus says. His head droops, thinking of the mix of darkness, danger, and revelation to come. But it evaporates as, once again, he realizes how close he is to Therion. He's acutely aware of their postures, their breath, the aura like fire that radiates from each of them. He waits, eyes downcast, for Therion to step away.</p>
<p class="p3">"Don't think about it tonight," Therion says. His fingers graze Cyrus's shoulder, then settle into a firm grip. Cyrus lifts his chin to meet Therion's eye. That undercurrent that unsettled Cyrus in the tavern isn't gone, but it's remade, all the wildness transformed into a point and focused on him, drawing the breath right out of his lungs, both of them locked in place by this invisible thread between them. As though pulled, Cyrus leans forward. He kisses Therion, pushing him back while grabbing his waist to keep him close. The touch sets off a cascade through his veins, like lightning crackling under his skin but never leaving, and explodes back inside him as Therion kisses him back, as Therion slides his hand around Cyrus's neck and tangles fingers in his hair. That touch, loosening his already messy hair from its tie, makes him gasp. They part, but barely. Cyrus can feel the hot exhale of Therion's breath. The tie from his hair dangles from Therion's fingers, against his neck.</p>
<p class="p3"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p3"> </p>
<p class="p3">The stairs are dark but not dark enough. Too public. Therion can't let go of Cyrus. So instead he moves without parting, using his whole body to drag Cyrus along, like they're one, like it's the dance of battle.</p>
<p class="p3">"Therion, where are you going?" Cyrus asks. His voice is close to Therion's ear, and they're practically stumbling over each other's feet on the stones. Therion keeps moving. He's been here long enough to know there's a gap between buildings ahead that's too narrow for trash and too wide for cross traffic.</p>
<p class="p3">"Therion," Cyrus says, curious, needy, and hearing his name in that voice, in <em>that</em> voice, makes him hurry. The moonlight, what little there is, doesn't make it between the buildings and it's a world of shadows when Therion stops, out of sight of the street. He pulls Cyrus against him, himself against the wall, and tilts his head back just enough to meet Cyrus's lips.</p>
<p class="p3">"You came looking," Cyrus says when they part. Therion's hands, clench and wrinkle Cyrus's shirt. He had. Therion had left the tavern knowing full well that he aimed to catch up to Cyrus, and then he had stood too close, then he had reached out, even though he knew Cyrus would ask, always desperate to know every reason, every thought, every thing. But he hadn't expected Cyrus to grab him at all, much less so eagerly.</p>
<p class="p3">Instead of answering, Therion tugs at him, and Cyrus obliges. He dips his head to find Therion's mouth. This is a much better use of Cyrus's mouth, Therion thinks, before his thoughts dissolve into sensation, into the warmth pooling inside him, into the pressure of hands running down his sides. Better to have his hands on Therion's hips than in a book. The bag slips from Therion's shoulder, the weight of it yanking his hand from Cyrus. With the movement, they part again. He lets the bag drop to the ground, with the thump of the books inside, and lets his hand drift back to Cyrus's arm.</p>
<p class="p3">"What I mean is, you came and found me, not—" Cyrus has a strange look on his face, half-masked by the shadows. Desire, clear enough, his eyes darting back to Therion's mouth even as he tries to look him in the eye. But something else, too. Then he smiles, small and embarrassed. "I talk too much."</p>
<p class="p3">For once, Therion wants to know. He waits, terrified to hear what would follow that <em>not</em>. Tries not to speak, to find the hem of Cyrus's shirt with his fingers in the dark, following the texture of a seam. It only takes a moment for Cyrus to break.</p>
<p class="p3">"It's not that I was convenient, at least not tonight," Cyrus says. Therion's heart pounds. He's (gladly) pinned to the wall, not a position that requires talking. He could kiss Cyrus again to shut him up. He could. He could do <em>anything</em>, instead of looking up at him, waiting for the rest of the thought to come tumbling out and pin Therion down even more. In Wellspring, the convenience was undeniable, but since then, he has mixed up that aborted kiss into everything that could have been and everything that was, the magic and the apothecary and the team, possibilities cut off and never to be revisited—until Cyrus walked into the tavern that afternoon. But he can't say that, and admit how his spirits lifted. If this is anything more than convenience, then it's not just that he shallowly trusts Cyrus and the others to have his back in battle. It's that he wants, needs something from the scholar, and Therion can't bear that. He breathes shallowly.</p>
<p class="p3">While they've been in the shadows, people have passed the mouth of the alley—quietly on their way, groups chattering, a pair of running feet—but now familiar voices carry through the air. Alfyn and Olberic sing some deniably rude song, which Tressa's comments make undeniably rude. At the familiar sound, Cyrus leans back, surprised out of whatever else he might have said. Therion slips from his arms. He needs them, to face Darius. He needs them to fight with him. He needs to not fuck everything up with desire and sentimentality.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion is a few steps away when Cyrus calls his name, barely loud enough for him to hear.</p>
<p class="p3">"Where are you going?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Back to my room," Therion says. He can hop a fence and follow a back path. No questions about what they were doing in an alley. No time to talk about—anything. He pauses. It's too dark to really see Cyrus's face. "No reason to give them something to talk about."</p>
<p class="p3">He hears the sigh behind him as he pushes himself over the fence. Too late. He's over and gone, and running silently to the inn.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i wrote parts of this chapter SO EARLY and as this fic expanded it got farther and farther away, receding into the distance like a zeno's paradox of make-outs</p>
<p>thank you, as always, for reading</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. the essence of all learning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p3">In the morning, Therion lurks around their chosen tavern until he determines that Cyrus is not there. It isn't avoidance. Therion just likes to know what he's getting into. Some part of him is disappointed, even, so it can't be avoidance. Ophilia sits alone at a table deep within the tavern, and smiles at him pleasantly when he joins her with a pot of tea.</p>
<p class="p3">"How was the evening after I retired?" Ophilia asks.</p>
<p class="p3">"Degenerate," he says. "You left just in time."</p>
<p class="p3">She laughs. "I'm glad to know that these are your friends. You nearly had me believe that you were alone before we met. I feel better about our parting, knowing them."</p>
<p class="p3">"Glad I could ease your mind." Therion busies himself with the tea. "Not that they're my friends."</p>
<p class="p3">"Oh, no," Ophilia says. "No more than Olberic or myself."</p>
<p class="p3">Therion glances at her with a scowl he can barely fake. "Don't go telling everyone. I've got this reputation to keep."</p>
<p class="p3">"Who'd believe a cleric when it comes to the king of thieves?" Ophilia asks with a bright smile and a wickedness in her eyes.</p>
<p class="p3">Someone approaches the table, and awkwardly stands over them. "Hey," Alfyn says. "Mind if I join y'all?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Please do," Ophilia says.</p>
<p class="p3">"We didn't get to talk all that much last night," Alfyn says, pulling out a chair next to Ophilia. Therion wonders about the expression on his face, as nervous as he's ever seen the man. He teased Alfyn about Primrose and H'aanit the day before, but hadn't really meant it. In truth, Therion's got no clue about Alfyn's interests at <em>all</em> because the man is so ingratiating toward everyone he meets, which makes his current hesitation oddly intriguing.</p>
<p class="p3">But the nervousness comes from elsewhere. Alfyn leans on the table and looks not quite at Ophilia, but not quite away from her. "I hope it's not too early—or too forward—to ask you some stuff in your professional capacity?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Of course! Would you like to take a walk, or...?" She glances discreetly at Therion.</p>
<p class="p3">"Nah, I don't mind. In fact, it's good that you're here, Therion. You should... you should know what's been going on. Maybe catching you up will make it easier to talk about the rest," Alfyn says. As Alfyn begins the story, Ophilia sits back to listen, letting Therion lean closer across the table if he wants. He doesn't; he tries not to be too keen. When Alfyn mentions Cyrus's injury and nearly being lost in a pit, Therion stiffens, but keeps his face carefully blank as the story continues. It's no surprise that Cyrus blundered into such magnificent danger, chasing after a tome of dark magic. Scholars are always up to idiotic experiments that do nobody any good at all, Therion thinks furiously. </p>
<p class="p3">Alfyn goes on, telling about traveling along the coast with Tressa, a disagreement with another apothecary in Goldshore, though he dismisses it with gaps of detail. "Then we started heading west," Alfyn says. He glances at Therion with a shrug. "We figured you weren't coming to Stonegard."</p>
<p class="p3">"Spot on," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"We passed through Saintsbridge," Alfyn says. Ophilia nods with recognition. "You know it? A nice town. Except for the guy who's life I saved." Alfyn slumps a little, and rubs his hand in his hair. His hands are pretty beat up these days. They were never the hands of a city dweller, but when Therion first joined him, Alfyn was careful to check both of them for any need of salves or lotions. Feet and hands, he'd said, got to keep in the best shape you can. Now he's got defensive knicks, splitting skin and scrapes untreated, like he hasn't bothered with his own smallest hurts. "I saw another apothecary stop by a guy in the street with a real bad wound, and just... he just walked away. He said the guy wasn't worth saving. And I thought, hells, another bad apothecary? Ain't no one who isn't worth saving. That's not our call."</p>
<p class="p3">Now Alfyn straightens. Therion has never seen him quite like this. Anguish, but not about a difficult healing. A burden that he can't shift away.</p>
<p class="p3">"I almost lost Miguel in the night. That's the wounded guy. He was in bad shape, but by mid-day I knew he'd be okay. He got up on his own not long after. And then... Then I thought he was out for a walk—a good sign, you know?—and I went to find him. Boy, did I." Alfyn looks to be in almost physical pain, leaning back in his chair, then forward again before he can find the next words. "He had a kid by the throat and was yelling at the mother to give him money she didn't even have. When she couldn't—of course she couldn't—he ran off with the kid into the woods. What was I supposed to do? I found the others and followed him."</p>
<p class="p3">Alfyn is quiet for a long stretch. Therion takes the time to top off the tea in front of him, then pushes it across the table to Alfyn, who wraps his hands around it. He stares at it like he's not really seeing it.</p>
<p class="p3">"Alfyn," Ophilia says softly. He looks at her, distraught.</p>
<p class="p3">"He hurt the boy. He wouldn't let me help. So I stopped him," Alfyn says, with a weight to his words that sounded wrong, from him. "I'd known he was a thief all along. But it was pretty clear by then that he was a liar and a killer. And I don't... I don't feel bad about stopping him." Alfyn looks at the tea again, his brow furrowed. Therion believes him. They've put a stop to a lot of people together. It surprised him only at first, that such an aggravatingly gentle apothecary could also be so fierce in a fight. "What I can't stop thinking about is—if I—if I had been like that other apothecary and left Miguel to die, the boy wouldn't have been hurt. Was he right? Was he right to decide Miguel wasn't worth saving?"</p>
<p class="p3">Ophilia glances at Therion, which confuses him. Does she wish he weren't here? But she only asks, "What is your duty as an apothecary?"</p>
<p class="p3">"I aim to help people," Alfyn says. "But helping Miguel meant that boy got hurt."</p>
<p class="p3">"Did you hurt the boy?"</p>
<p class="p3">"I may as well have."</p>
<p class="p3">"Did you hold the weapon?"</p>
<p class="p3">Alfyn looks down. "No."</p>
<p class="p3">"I do understand your troubles. I too aim to help people, and heal them in more ways than one," Ophilia says. "With the harsh cold in my hometown, we've opened our church as a shelter to those in need many times. Sometimes they take advantage, and food or valuables will disappear, or a fight may break out. But we open our doors again, because we cannot know the worth of anyone, or what tomorrow may bring. Who can know if one small kindness may keep them to the good?"</p>
<p class="p3">Alfyn is quiet in response. Likely still tormenting himself over the boy who was hurt. Ophilia looks at Therion again, a longer and more searching look.</p>
<p class="p3">Keeping her eyes on Therion, Ophilia says, "A person's past cannot tell you their worth, whatever that other apothecary thinks."</p>
<p class="p3">The words hit Therion harder than their tone would suggest. With a small shake of his head—less to tell her no than to deny the idea altogether—he looks away. It's not like Therion has told Ophilia all that much, tiny drippings of what his life has been, but the woman has an uncanny sense for what isn't said and maybe needs to be. All that stuff about the gods, when Therion wouldn't ask. And now this. It's his turn to speak without being asked. Therion glares vaguely at the table, then starts to talk before he can stop himself.</p>
<p class="p3">"That guy isn't the only one like that. Plenty of apothecaries wouldn't bother treating someone if they knew he was a criminal. A thief? Think twice. Liar, too? Not worth the medicine. Killer, on top of everything? Sure, leave him to bleed out, I guess," Therion says, feeling like he's losing track of his words. He takes a small breath. "If that jackass had found me four years ago, I'd be dead now."</p>
<p class="p3">Both of them turn to him with a jolt. Alfyn says, "Four years ago?"</p>
<p class="p3">"You think I should be dead? I'm a thief, and a liar, and a killer," Therion says, sharpness creeping into his voice because he honestly doesn't know what Alfyn's answer will be.</p>
<p class="p3">"I don't mean the fights we've gotten into," Alfyn says. "This guy killed an innocent man who got in the way of one of his thefts."</p>
<p class="p3">Therion holds Alfyn's gaze. He has done worse things than he's told them about, worse than he's even hinted or let them imagine. He never wanted to detail his past for any of the others, least of all these two. Maybe he was never as cold as Darius, but that's only a matter of degrees. There are bodies behind him that he regrets.</p>
<p class="p3">Alfyn's brow slowly wrinkles as it sinks in. He looks away before Therion does.</p>
<p class="p3">Ophilia gently touches Therion's shoulder. Then she turns to Alfyn. "Do you think that apothecary would have left Therion to die? And knowing him now—?"</p>
<p class="p3">"I don't know," Alfyn says painfully. "I don't know. He... he was so sure and all, you know? He had good reasons." Alfyn turns the cup of tea in his hands and seems to see it for the first time. He lifts it as though to take a drink, then catches Therion's eye and pauses. "I guess his reasons ain't mine."</p>
<p class="p3">"So?"</p>
<p class="p3">"So... I don't think he's all wrong. But whatever you did before, I'm glad you're here now. So I don't think he's right either," Alfyn says. Neither of them smile at the other, but Therion warms at the words, though he's not sure how much stock he truly puts in them. It is Alfyn, after all, who spills over with kindness and positivity like it's in his blood. Or he used to, Therion thinks. Before all that happened. He'd been quieter, this past day. Okay, okay, Therion thinks to himself. This sort of sentiment. This is okay. This is what means you can <em>really</em> trust each other in a fight. We're sort of a team, after all.</p>
<p class="p3">After a long, contemplative moment, Alfyn shakes his head, then takes a drink of tea. "Speaking of being here now, where're you headed next? Not with Olberic, you said."</p>
<p class="p3">"No," Therion says. "North."</p>
<p class="p3">Alfyn's expression lifts, some of the turmoil and doubt vanishing back inside him. "You thinkin' of rejoining us?"</p>
<p class="p3">"I guess I could use the back-up with these last two stones. And it'll be nice to travel with someone interesting again," Therion says. Ophilia rolls her eyes, not at all offended, and Alfyn's grin turns wary. He knows better. Therion barely bothers to hide a smirk. "It's been <em>so</em> long since Primrose left."</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p3"> </p>
<p class="p3">Unfortunately for Cyrus's peace of mind, the first time he sees Therion after the ale-filled reunion is when everyone has gathered for a final meal together, and considering Therion's exit the night before, he thinks that any questions would not best be asked in front of anyone else. Cyrus cannot quite piece together why the sound of their friends would be enough for Therion to run, when he had been looking at him so... so... Cyrus doesn't have the words for it, no matter how he tries, but he remembers Therion's expression, even as dark as that alley was. And he remembers that Therion came to find him.</p>
<p class="p3">In a courtyard in Victor's Hollow, they sit together for one large mid-day meal; Cyrus is surprised at his sadness to learn he would be parting ways with Tressa. She has unfinished business in Victor's Hollow—a treasure map to follow and a former pirate to impress—and after that, she's eager to head back to the coast. As Olberic and Ophilia are heading roughly the same way, it makes more sense for them to accompany the merchant, and they're happy to do so with Therion's... well, <em>approval</em> of Tressa would be a bit strong, but his lack of disapproval. He claims the greatest recommendation he could give is that he hadn't left her behind on the road, not even once. Cyrus supposes that if Olberic and Ophilia understand his meaning, they got to know him quite well in the short weeks they traveled together. (When thinking of how long Therion was <em>with</em> the others, Cyrus thinks of the weeks as short, and yet those same weeks <em>away</em> from Cyrus, the weeks are long. Time, it seems, is more flexible than a clock or calendar has room to express.)</p>
<p class="p3">As the plates empty and the sun shifts in the sky, Therion gets up and tries to simply walk away, but Ophilia has none of it.</p>
<p class="p3">"Oh, Therion! Do stay safe!" she says, and wraps him tightly in a hug. Over her shoulder, Therion makes a face at the others. But Cyrus is amused to see that he puts his arms around her too. She holds him, and says more, a little more quietly, which Cyrus, while shaking Olberic's hand, hears as "I hope you find your home." It's possible he misheard it. He's not sure what it means, but there's no reason it should mean anything to him. A moment later, Therion pulls away, and turns to bid farewell to Olberic. Soon enough, Tressa pulls herself from Alfyn and Primrose, waits for Therion to glance her way, and punches his arm.</p>
<p class="p3">"See ya, thief," she says. Therion smirks at her.</p>
<p class="p3">"Try not to swindle anyone, pipsqueak," he says.</p>
<p class="p3">Tressa scrunches up her face but it's clear it's mock-anger. She dives forward and gives Therion a hug so brief it might not have happened. Crossing her arms, she says, "It's good to know you're not dead. Stay that way."</p>
<p class="p3">"Good luck with your market," Therion says, making Tressa grin. Cyrus doesn't understand why the two of them had needled each other endlessly, but now, on parting, act as some sort of friends; it's possible some aspects of relationships do truly escape him. He looks around at the little gathering, half of them with rucksacks on their backs. Primrose has hers by her feet while she rummages in an outer pocket. Therion says, "We should head out if we want to make any progress before dark."</p>
<p class="p3">"Wait, one last thing," Primrose says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Oh!" Tressa exclaims, clearly catching on. She nudges Olberic forward.</p>
<p class="p3">"We found this outside of town," Primrose says. She holds out a talent, chain dangling from her fingers. "Perhaps if you stop in a village called S'warkii, you might find someone to help you with it."</p>
<p class="p3">"Is this...?" Olberic gently takes the charm.</p>
<p class="p3">"From Draefendi's shrine. My friend H'aanit might be able to guide your understanding," Primrose says. "I imagine Ophilia is familiar with the concept of talents?"</p>
<p class="p3">Olberic shares a glance with Ophilia, who smiles a little. "I wasn't going to let them leave without it," she says to him. From a pocket, she pulls another charm.</p>
<p class="p3">"Is there one for every god?" Cyrus breathes—but of course there is, he thinks. There would have to be, and it was only a matter of finding the shrines. When they'd found Draefendi's, he still thought they were rare relics, the last of their kind.</p>
<p class="p3">"Sealticge," Ophilia says, and places it firmly in Primrose's hand. "I think you'll have more luck finding its power. I'm afraid the charm was a mystery to me."</p>
<p class="p3">Primrose clasps it to her chest. "That shocks me," she says, and reaches a hand to Ophilia's shoulder. "I would think you were naturally a Lady of Grace."</p>
<p class="p3">"Perhaps someday, in better times, you might teach me."</p>
<p class="p3">"I would be honored," Primrose says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Imagine what each of the gods could bestow if one could trace all their shrines," Cyrus says to himself. "The power of Alephan, yes, and the thunderous strength of Draefendi... Sealticge's grace and alluring magic. Dreisang's unparalleled elemental control, and—"</p>
<p class="p3">"You can drool over old maps and ancient legends later," Alfyn says, shaking his shoulder. "We've gotta hit the road."</p>
<p class="p3">"Right, so we do," Cyrus says, apologetic.</p>
<p class="p3">One last round of farewells, and they head out of the town. Cyrus is pleased by the familiarity. He has enjoyed meeting all of the others, but because he set out from Atlasdam on this strange journey with Alfyn, Primrose, and Therion, having them by his side again as he heads (with a slight detour) to what he hopes will be the conclusion of his task brings him satisfaction and comfort.</p>
<p class="p3">For some time, Cyrus trails behind the others. Primrose scouts ahead, while Alfyn and Therion talk, intermittently, or don't. It seems that Alfyn has filled Therion in on the events since they parted, as Saintsbridge comes up without need for explanation. Cyrus thought he had figured Therion out before. Yes, there was the confusion with certain more intimate actions, but overall, Cyrus thought he understood him: a guarded but fair person, one who stuck to his word but wouldn't hesitate to skewer you with his words because he was bored, and certainly not interested in small talk. But he didn't return to them in Stonegard as promised, and he walks with Alfyn amiably enough now.</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus supposes something must have changed, or that he's misjudged him all along.</p>
<p class="p3">The creatures in the woods are increasingly fierce as they travel north. After a bout with a particularly persistent boar, Alfyn treats a contusion on Primrose, then walks on with her to continue whatever conversation they had struck up. Therion lingers between the pair and Cyrus, yet doesn't join either.</p>
<p class="p3">"So, my friend," Cyrus calls forward, "what exactly awaits you in Northreach?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Exactly?" Therion slows to fall almost into step with Cyrus. He stays a pace ahead, as though a little uncertain about committing to the conversation. Cyrus supposes there's good reason, except many other things are occupying Cyrus's mind in addition to stolen kisses.</p>
<p class="p3">"You haven't told us more than that the dragonstones are there. The man from Wellspring must have them both, I imagine. Were you able to acquire more information about his status since you knew him, and what you should expect when you arrive?" Cyrus asks.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion laughs bitterly. "Yeah, the man from Wellspring's up there waiting."</p>
<p class="p3">"And what manner of trap are we walking into?" Cyrus asks. The little he witnessed in Wellspring, he remembers well, and he suspects that the man—who Therion admitted to knowing—will be expecting them, and thus prepared. Why he would want the dragonstones is another question, and could shed light on any potential traps or difficulties they might encounter, but the stories of the dragonstones, aside from brief mentions of the mythical Gate of Finis, are varied and contradictory.</p>
<p class="p3">"Not sure. The butler's going to meet me there. Knowing Darius, he doesn't so much have traps as brute force, manipulation, and lies, so who knows. I've heard too many rumors about Northreach lately to relax," Therion says. Cyrus is surprised by his honesty, or at least the small bits of honesty he's let slip.</p>
<p class="p3">"How well <em>do</em> you know Darius?"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion gets another pace ahead. "Enough."</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus decides it is safer—for the continuation of any conversation, for his own life—to let that be. Instead he asks if Therion will accompany them to Duskbarrow afterward, adding that he would certainly welcome the man's assistance with whatever waits there. Therion shrugs noncommittally, and says something about convenience, like he had when they first met. As Cyrus chews this over, Therion adds that they'll be parting ways at some point, obviously, so it's no good to plan all that far ahead.</p>
<p class="p3">Which Cyrus disagrees with most vehemently, and says so: "Of course we'll inevitably part if you expect such a thing, but if you were <em>willing</em> to help, then we could easily plan around whatever tasks you need—"</p>
<p class="p3">"Look, whatever happens, that's fine. But don't go changing plans on my account," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">But, Cyrus thinks, what if I want to?</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus walks in silence for some time, letting Therion get as far ahead, or not, as he wants. He watches the man, his light footfalls, the way he slows to study something in the thinning woods, the leaf that catches against his cloak, the sun catching his face when he turns at a rustling sound. Therion's skills of observation are undeniable, as is his grace in movement, whether lifting a stranger's purse, evading a strike in battle, or, as now, moving down a path without making a sound among fallen leaves. Cyrus supposes he's been impressed by Therion for quite a while, but only recently has let himself think on it. Oh, he's scattered compliments about Therion's abilities as he has for any of the others, but they were passing admirations, and the thoughts that circle in his mind now are building into something else. He supposes it matters little at this juncture in their journey. How he might feel about the thief is only of consequence if they survive, and though he would rather not consider the worst outcomes, it is very possible either one of them will not. Even then, survival assumed, it seems likely Therion will simply disappear after retrieving the dragonstones, never to be heard from again, back into shadows and thievery. It is far likelier than anything else Cyrus can think of, based on evidence, testimony, and past action. (But, a small piece of him asks, hasn't something changed?) For now, whatever he might feel is the least relevant item in either of their lives. So he ought to cease thinking about it. It is unimportant. The dragonstones, and <em>From the Far Reaches of Hell</em>. Not <em>Onfæreld</em> and Therion's hand on his chest.</p>
<p class="p3">After some time on the path, Therion drops back near Cyrus.</p>
<p class="p3">"Heard you nearly died again," Therion says lightly.</p>
<p class="p3">Ah, so Alfyn had colored his telling of Stonegard quite liberally with his own overblown take on the injuries and danger. Cyrus stabs the ground a little harder the next time his staff connects.</p>
<p class="p3">"An overstatement," Cyrus says. "Further, and more importantly, I learned where the tome is and the goals of those who have wielded its knowledge."</p>
<p class="p3">"It was damned stupid for you to go alone," Therion says. A touch of anger creeps into his voice as though he had been there, which irks Cyrus.</p>
<p class="p3">"And it was damned stupid for you to fight so recklessly in Wellspring, and to cease learning magic, and to go off on your own," Cyrus says fiercely, but keeping his voice controlled enough not to carry through the woods. "I imagine if we hadn't crossed paths again, you would have headed to Northreach alone. Are you so foolhardy, even now?"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion recoils from Cyrus in surprise, then shakes it off. "Olberic would've put off leaving for Wellspring."</p>
<p class="p3">"So you would have used him rather than us?"</p>
<p class="p3">"You think I'm using you?" Therion asks, voice like a dagger.</p>
<p class="p3">"No," Cyrus says, firmly. "No. I do not."</p>
<p class="p3">Except he does. Just not in that way. And not all of them. Before he can ask anything about the night in Victor's Hollow, Therion speaks again.</p>
<p class="p3">"I fought like that in Wellspring 'cause I wasn't expecting Darius. I know he's there this time. I'm not stupid," Therion says. "I'm gonna cheat as much as he does."</p>
<p class="p3">"Do you know him well enough to know his weak points? We can prepare strategies," Cyrus says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Not sure anymore. He knows me, too, that's the problem," Therion says. "But."</p>
<p class="p3">"Hm?"</p>
<p class="p3">By Cyrus's side, Therion crosses his arms tight and stops scanning the path around them, which is increasingly treeless and coated in snow. He watches the ground passing under their feet. "If no one else is using it, I was thinking I'd pick up that talent again. Doesn't make sense not to use every weapon I can."</p>
<p class="p3">"Certainly," Cyrus says. He doesn't dig out the talent right away; that would be too eager. "I can find it the next time we take a rest. If you need a refresher lesson, I would be happy to help."</p>
<p class="p3">"Fine," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">At that moment, precisely when Cyrus has found the space to ask if Therion plans on kissing him again (not that he would push the matter one way or the other, considering its previously-established irrelevance, it's simply that he's seeking information, you see) three ice lizardmen set upon them, and once they have been dispatched, Cyrus finds that he is walking with Alfyn instead.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p3"> </p>
<p class="p3">Therion knew they really shouldn't have tried to sleep in a ruin, no matter how abandoned it looked, but they were half a day away from any settlement and the night was coming on fast. They are, once again, as always, in the middle of a battle they didn't ask for. Story of Therion's life, really.</p>
<p class="p3">Okay, about half the time he did ask for the fight, but only 'cause he was bored or the other person was a dick, or he needed to win something or else be weak. There were a lot of circumstances to consider.</p>
<p class="p3">A massive cyclopean elephant creature, however—he definitely didn't ask for that.</p>
<p class="p3">It's easy enough to keep it from killing them, but much harder to get it to back off or die. They're at a stalemate. Whenever it starts to rush Alfyn, Primrose distracts it; when Cyrus needs a minute to try a spell, Therion provokes the thing. Therion would try his newly-regained magic, but Cyrus's much more experienced attempts show how futile that would be against this beast. The lightning only seems to distract it. They're getting nowhere, and the beast doesn't seem to be tiring as fast as they are.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion backs off behind a more substantial piece of wall to think, and watch. Its head is covered by thick bony protuberances, and its tusks would tear any of them open before they got close enough to put out its eye or stab its throat. Plenty of spots where he could get a clean cut, but he could maybe, <em>maybe</em> get one cut in before it gored him, and he'd need a half dozen to start it bleeding out. A few disabling strokes on its legs, sure, but he'd be trampled before he could get out of the way.</p>
<p class="p3">Alfyn tosses a blade back to Primrose—coated in poison, Therion guesses—and as they're both distracted, the behemoth's hulking mass twists toward Cyrus in the start of a charge.</p>
<p class="p3"><em>No</em>.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion starts to stand, the blood rushing in his ears like a storm that blocks all else, but Cyrus is already twisting out of the way, a wall of fire left behind where he'd been standing. The behemoth's thick fur smokes, singed, but it's still wild-eyed and rampaging. Cyrus had been trying to learn anything of Sealticge from Primrose, and, it seems, to Therion's great relief, some of the agility and grace had started to stick. Therion exhales heavily, the burst of adrenaline still rushing through him.</p>
<p class="p3">But panic of the close call gives Therion an idea. Born of sentiment, before, but he can learn from it. Surely he can shut out the feelings and find the cold blade instead. He hunches behind the wall, hidden. Keeping his ears open to the fight, he squeezes his eyes shut. That moment, he thinks, that moment that makes him feel sick and golden. The light that kept him awake for days after. The way hours seemed to go by, and only minutes had. The pure flame that rose inside him in that mine when he saw— </p>
<p class="p3">"Aeber, please," Therion whispers, almost voiceless. He cannot rely on terror and luck and the wandering eye of a god now. If it's only the terror of seeing Cyrus fall as though dead that gives him power, he doesn't want it. He prays that it's not the only way. It can't be only from a foolish heart. This battle of attrition will end badly if it doesn't end soon. Therion searches and searches inside himself, looking for the tiniest spark, a glimmer of flame, a pinprick, until the shouting tells him he can't stay away from the fight any longer. He stands, and turns to see.</p>
<p class="p3">Alfyn swings his axe, while Primrose spins on her toes with a dark shadow forming in her hands. His fingers laced with sparks, Cyrus prepares another spell. They all move sluggishly. Are they tiring so much already? Therion turns toward the behemoth, and is surprised to find the bony head is bright white, the fur a dirty but pale brown and ivory. It swings its massive tusks as though through water. Every crevice in the wall stands out, every rock fallen on the ground casting a shadow. The ruin is lit by noon sunlight. The air seems clearer when he inhales, and his veins sing with energy.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion is going to have to pay a visit to another shrine someday, he thinks.</p>
<p class="p3">"Clear out!" he yells. He begins to vault over the wall. The others don't move fast enough, so he yells again. "Move!"</p>
<p class="p3">The others step back as Therion darts forward. He begins to laugh—he could nearly play like a child on the behemoth's swinging tusks, moving so slowly it's like they're branches in the wind; but first! First he weaves between its legs, legs like tree trunks for their size and speed, spinning his daggers between relaxed fingers as he goes, with a pause—</p>
<p class="p3">a slice—</p>
<p class="p3">     a turn—</p>
<p class="p3">          a slice—</p>
<p class="p3">and he is around and out again as the beast stumbles, half of its legs no longer working.</p>
<p class="p3">The behemoth still flails, head tossing this way and that. The others can't get anywhere near it for the thrashing tusks but Therion—! Therion swings up onto a tusk. He runs up its bony, stony head. Perched there on a boulder-like protruberance, he thrusts his dagger deep into its eye, then jumps down, hands soaked with viscera, the beast screaming.</p>
<p class="p3">The room is as bright as the hottest summer noon. Therion should finish the job. Just turn around. One more stroke to the exposed throat. End the misery.</p>
<p class="p3">He lifts his hand to regrip his dagger and it drags, like every movement of his hand lingers a fraction, shadows and shadows and shadows of the gesture trailing.</p>
<p class="p3">But he has all this power, he has to finish what he started, so he takes a step. His foot, too, shadows itself.</p>
<p class="p3">This is all part of the power, surely, he says to himself as he takes another step.</p>
<p class="p3">The sun goes out.</p>
<p class="p2">❈</p>
<p class="p3">Therion wakes in a different part of the ruin, and immediately relaxes as he recognizes Cyrus sitting next to him with a book. Alive, both of them. Cyrus's eyes go to Therion.</p>
<p class="p3">"Alfyn, he's awake," Cyrus calls.</p>
<p class="p3">"What, did I hit my head?" Therion asks, sitting up. He feels utterly fine. A little tired. Not sick or strange or golden. And he remembers the fight.</p>
<p class="p3">"Nope," Alfyn says. Primrose trails after him grimly. "You up and fell down out of nowhere. Well, not out of <em>no</em>where."</p>
<p class="p3">"They said that you did this before," Primrose says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Last time he didn't faint," Alfyn says.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion scowls at him. "Faint?"</p>
<p class="p3">"It's the proper term." Alfyn has a glint in his eye, clearly aware that Therion doesn't like the choice of words. But Therion only rolls his eyes. "Do you remember?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Course I remember, I was fucking there," Therion says. Then he shifts his seat, leaning forward a bit. It worked, he thinks, it <em>worked</em>. "I did it on purpose. Thought of it during the fight."</p>
<p class="p3">"I have several questions," Cyrus finally says.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion turns to him. "You don't say."</p>
<p class="p3">His eyes on a loose sheet of paper on his book, Cyrus peppers him with questions like he's going down a list. Probably is. "What precisely made you recall this technique? How were you able to summon it, and how did that differ from before, when you did not summon it intentionally, nor in fact know you could summon it? What were the sensations—"</p>
<p class="p3">"Oh, fuck me," Therion mutters. "I saw the beast start to charge you, and remembered the mine, okay? And I learned a few things without you around, if you can believe it."</p>
<p class="p3">"You learned how to summon what is clearly a divine talent without a gift from a shrine?" Cyrus asks flatly. His eyes stay downcast as he turns his head slightly toward Therion. His entire demeanor is a little strange, in fact. Therion supposes he hadn't seen the thing happen before. That might put anyone off. Primrose is quiet, too.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion grins. "You know there's a god of thieves, yeah? I guess you steal enough shit, he takes notice."</p>
<p class="p3">"Whoa," Alfyn says, sitting back on his heels. "Is that blasphemy? If Ophilia was here, she'd know if that was blasphemy, or if it's just dandy what with it being some god of thieves. Which one's that?"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion hesitates, but says, "Aeber," and a clear bell seems to sound in his ears. Or his chest. A clean, clear resonance.</p>
<p class="p3">"It was beautiful to watch," Primrose says. "And awful, too."</p>
<p class="p3">"But it did the trick," Therion says, not quite making it a question.</p>
<p class="p3">"Nearly. Alfyn finished it off. Then we kept on until we found this spot to rest," Primrose says. Therion's a little disappointed that for all that, he failed to strike the final blow.</p>
<p class="p3">"And we really should rest now," Alfyn says. "We were all just staying up a bit to see if you woke up. As it is, we're gonna have a late start tomorrow."</p>
<p class="p3">Primrose and Alfyn return to the nooks where their bedrolls wait. The idea of a late start brings Therion crashing back to what they're starting towards. The behemoth and Aeber's power had been a welcome distraction, in some ways. But now he scowls back to the thought of Darius, three days travel from here. Perhaps two, if they push. Therion starts to adjust his bedroll, though he thinks he may not sleep much for imagining what they'll soon find in the north.</p>
<p class="p3">Oddly, Cyrus hasn't yet left his side, as though he needed a moment, for once, to find words. Therion knows that Cyrus has almost asked a dozen different times about Victor's Hollow, but either been interrupted, or swallowed the words like he changed his mind about knowing. Maybe this is it, in the dark, in the quiet. Therion breathes shallowly, spinning answers in his mind.</p>
<p class="p3">"If we undertake another refresher session on magic, and you're amenable, I would like to talk in more detail about that ability you've twice summoned from Aeber. If you come to understand the power of it better, you might avoid fainting again," Cyrus says, surprising Therion. He shifts to his knees and grabs the nearby lantern, but pauses again before leaving. What Therion can see of his face, half-turned away in the darkness, is strained, and Therion winces that he might be the cause. "Seeing that power drain from you so completely was a horrible sight. I would rather not repeat it."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>so I thought way too much and not enough about the job system in a "real world" environment. Like how mad would Therion be if Tressa just threw on Aeber's pendant and was suddenly a world-class thief, and vice versa. so it couldn't be just a magic wand to give you skills. more like an accelerated ability to learn the skills, which is why you really need to have someone to hold your hand for at least a while. and they happened to find a few talents that had clear links to people they knew, how convenient</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. knowledge of the heavens</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p3">In the lessons they squeeze in on the road, Cyrus notices an increasingly frantic edge to Therion's exercises. He drags Cyrus away for practice so often that Cyrus can barely spend time with Primrose to learn her skills—though once he says something about it, Therion very clearly holds back, letting Cyrus continue fumbling his way toward some semblance of grace; and Cyrus knows that Therion at times tests his skills with a dagger, which Primrose has not-so-secretly been adding to her lessons. Therion masters lightning like cracking a whip, like channeling the energy under his skin, and pushes Cyrus to teach him to draw more power from the spells. Cyrus, quite frankly, between the travel and the teaching and the learning and the staying alive, is exhausted.</p><p class="p3">"Perhaps you could teach <em>me</em> about summoning greater power," Cyrus suggests as Therion pulls him away for another session. They crunch over old snow, away from the small village they've stopped in for the night, to find a spot to safely practice. Therion shrugs even as Cyrus says, "If we work together to understand what you were able to summon, it might be a technique all of us could use. Each of us has some amount of magic—we could have more if we had firm knowledge."</p><p class="p3">"I don't know how to explain it," Therion says. The sun is low in the sky; the sun always seems low in the sky here. Whenever Cyrus asks (and Cyrus keeps asking, in different ways) Therion does give an answer, but it's always vague, like finding the words is excruciating. This time, Therion says, "It isn't something you can get out of a book."</p><p class="p3">Cyrus harrumphs at that.</p><p class="p3">They run through the spells over and over, until Therion gets the whipcrack of lightning to hit a target twice in a row, and he lets out an explosive, triumphant laugh. Cyrus applauds distractedly; in his weariness he feels frustrated by things he can't pin down, and things he has had to put by the wayside, unresolved. If he had a moment to be alone, and quiet, he could restore himself, put together these unsettled moments into an answer. But he has no time in their rush north.</p><p class="p3">"You truly have taken to this," Cyrus says, a weak compliment.</p><p class="p3">"Hells, anyone could, with this little charm." Breathless with the thrill, Therion tugs at the pendant hanging from his neck.</p><p class="p3">"No, I don't believe that is true. You have only to look to my struggles with Primrose to know that the talent is only a tool. Beyond whatever help it might provide, you've done plenty of work on your own to understand magic, its movements, the words of the spells—just like any young scholar would."</p><p class="p3">"What, you think I don't need it?" Therion asks, an eyebrow raised skeptically.</p><p class="p3">"Perhaps... but what I mean to say is, you have a great natural facility in understanding the movement of magic, how you have to feel the power in your body, let it move in you, and release it with the force of the spell. Is that not accurate to your experience?" Cyrus asks. As he speaks, he begins to understand that he has too many things to say, but so many have to do with the man in front of him; perhaps if he can get one thing clear, that will do. Perhaps that will ease his mind one degree. When Therion gives a minuscule nod, Cyrus takes a breath to gather his thoughts before continuing. "That knowledge could be what you need to wield elsewhere. Tell me... When you drew on the power of Aeber in that ruin, did you release it? Or did you hold onto it?"</p><p class="p3">The wind whips Therion's cloak as Cyrus asks the question, but he doesn't feel it, like saying the god's name changed the air only for those the god had touched. Not an impossible thing, Cyrus thinks. Therion winces into the frigid wind. The power of a god, channeled through an individual who had, somehow, been touched, could lead to immense revelations in other magic, in <em>all</em> magic. To rediscover a direct connection to the gods, beyond Aelfric's flame, would be revolutionary. Cyrus knows this, in the corner of his mind that remains tethered to the Royal Academy, but that isn't what matters to him now.</p><p class="p3">"You might not collapse—you might control the ending of such a great power—if you were willing to let it go," Cyrus says.</p><p class="p3">"Well, I'm pretty used to not holding onto things, so I bet I can manage," Therion says. The way he says it pains Cyrus, the casual bitterness. "I'll keep it in mind. Okay. Come on." Therion turns to the sparkling horizon, ready for another round of spells. He stretches, and finds his footing, but Cyrus doesn't step up to his side. He's too damned tired. He can't find a way to the words he needs, can't bring himself to act without words, can't pull away, can't rest while Therion has that lingering manic edge whenever he stares toward Northreach. He wishes that he could stumble through a poor attempt at understanding, without fear that he would provoke Therion into defensive flight.</p><p class="p3">From the edge of the clearing, Cyrus says, "You must welcome it while accepting that it will change, or end. Understanding it to be an experience which you may not control is very different from refusing the pleasure entirely because it may not end on your terms. But perhaps I'm entirely mistaken."</p><p class="p3">Cyrus takes a few crunching footsteps toward the village, and then adds, a little pointedly: "About magic, I mean."</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3">The group is a few hours from Northreach when darkness falls again; part of Therion wants to keep pushing and get it over with, but he knows that's absurd. Thank the gods for tiny nothing towns that exist only to serve travelers. This one seems to have sprung up where the road meets a daunting incline, giving generations of travelers enough of a pause that over time shacks have sprung up, and an ad hoc economy of renting and bartering around them. Some travelers who decided to throw away the label stuck around to maintain said shacks, and so: they find a few open beds in one building, separated by flimsy dividers, and a fourth bed on its own, in a tiny box of a thing, where gaps in the so-called walls are stuffed with rags. While they situate themselves, Therion keeps an ear open for any chatter about Northreach, from travelers coming from the other direction. He swears he hears his own name. But then he doesn't. He swears someone else gives him a funny look, but it's gone when he glances again. No one approaches, no one else says a thing, and there's no trouble throughout the slow, cold evening. He is growing too paranoid.</p><p class="p3">The separate shack has no windows, of course, only a small rectangle in the door with a hinged cover to peer outside. It has a latch that Therion can rig up with a lock, so Cyrus volunteers to stay there with all their most crucial supplies. Therion fidgets with the latch and messes up and redoes it and curses under his breath until he gets it right.</p><p class="p3">"Okay," Therion says. He stands in the small room with Cyrus at his shoulder. "When you want to secure it, slide this pin through here, and spin this. Then shove, like," he says, and shoves the mechanism. He shakes the door, and it doesn't budge. He had to shore up the hinges, too. "Like so."</p><p class="p3">"And so, we're locked in," Cyrus says at Therion's shoulder. The shack is small, and he's standing very close.</p><p class="p3">"More importantly, everyone else is locked out," Therion says. Focus, he thinks, though he feels split in about six different ways. With Darius in the shadows of his mind, with Cyrus attentive by his side, with magic pressing at the back of his neck, Therion goes through the steps to unlock the rigging, and then makes Cyrus show him, and show him again, until he's sure the scholar won't trap himself and make them break down the door in the morning.</p><p class="p3">"Okay," Therion says, again. He keeps saying it. It slips out like a tic, when he has no reason to say anything at all. <em>Okay</em> keeps coming like the way he keeps flipping a coin between his fingers, or the way his eyes scan the horizon. He can't quit. He hovers in the doorway. "I gotta help sunshine and Prim make dinner happen. See ya."</p><p class="p3">Not far from Cyrus's door is a fire pit, where an hour later they gather with strangers for a meal. The fire roars. It's enough to keep them warm while they eat, shifting toward and and away, toward and away, one side always too cold and the other too hot. This seems about right to Therion. He's going to kill Darius, or he's going to feel nothing; he's going to fly at him raging, or he's going to laugh. Cold or hot. He's so close. They're so close.</p><p class="p3">Therion follows the others to the rambling shack where they procured beds, and curls up under the inadequate blankets, fully dressed down to his boots. Tomorrow, Therion thinks, squeezing his eyes closed.</p><p class="p3">How many lackeys does he have?</p><p class="p3">Will Heathcote be any help at all?</p><p class="p3">What sort of a fucked up town is Darius running up there?</p><p class="p3">It's dark—still dark; it's been dark for hours—when Therion sneaks outside, tired of imagining and reimagining Northreach. He needs to pace. The stars glitter like ice.</p><p class="p3">The cold makes his heart race. He keeps telling himself that he's at peace with Darius. There is a difference between abuse and trust, and abuse of trust, and he knows these lines now; in the week of malingering in Bolderfall alone, Cordelia Ravus's words had rattled through him and made a slow impact. Even if her own story was laughably painless compared to Therion's experience, something rang true, amplified by his time with Ophilia. He cannot bear to soberly think things like <em>if I were wounded on a cliff now, they would carry me to safety</em> but the words keep creeping to the surface of his mind. Enough to make him physically shake them off as he walks. His boyish love for Darius, as his partner, as his friend, transformed for a while into hatred of everything—others, the idea of friendship, himself—but now he doesn't know what it is. It's still changing. And every step towards Northreach, it rises closer to the surface.</p><p class="p3">At the same time, he'll never shake off the memory of the fall. The long road after. Seeing Darius in Wellspring made him feel viciously alive, made him <em>want</em> to feel incandescently alive, and his hunger was a good thing. Wasn't it? He paces over the snow, a new crust of frost crackling under his feet. It's not hunger, now. It's that he can't be still. An excess of energy builds in him, like the split second before one of those scholar spells crackles to full power, except the split second never goes away. He keeps waiting for something to break the feeling—one of their skirmishes on the road, picking a fight with Alfyn, anything. This long walk.</p><p class="p3">Rubbing his gloved hands together under his cloak, Therion comes back to the camp, where few souls are still gathered around one dying fire. Everyone else has settled in for the night. It's too cold to be carousing under the stars. There is the shack he should be sleeping in. There is the ash-covered firepit they ate dinner around. And there. Just over there. There is Cyrus's door.</p><p class="p3">The frenetic energy under his skin takes Therion to the door before he can stop himself, and he taps at the wood, drumming with his fingertips. He could pick the lock, of course, one of his own, but. He taps. This is a foolish thing he's doing. Again seeking out Cyrus. Foolish, sentimental, weak. He becomes fixated by the tapping, the movement of his fingers, the da-da-da-duh sound, drumming away until he can't hear his own admonishments inside his head, and he barely registers the unlocking on the other side before the door opens. He does not stir from his lean against the doorframe when Cyrus peers out.</p><p class="p3">"Therion?"</p><p class="p3">"Hey," Therion says. Cyrus is not bleary-eyed from a deep sleep, but his hair is mussed, and so is the bed, like he'd barely started to sleep. Therion pushes inside. He can smell the recently extinguished lamp. The shack is so cramped that Therion can hardly pace. He gets to the other wall, peels his gloves off as he turns, and sees that Cyrus has latched the door securely. Locked them in. "Good habit," Therion says; by the time the words are out he's back across the tiny room and grabbing Cyrus by the shirtfront, pulling him down into a fierce kiss. At first, nothing—a moment of shock. Then Cyrus's hands spring to Therion's shoulders and he returns the kiss in equal measure. No thinking. No one interrupting. No explaining why, or who looked for who, or what this is, only built-up energy driving them together.</p><p class="p3">Therion opens his hands over Cyrus's shirt, palms flat against his chest, and they move with the inhale that fills Cyrus's lungs when they part, for just a moment. A word starts to come to Cyrus's lips, but Therion shakes his head, and kisses him again. Yes, he thinks, enough to be alive. Enough to be inside with the snow out. Enough to have this thread of trust between them, and whatever else. So he came to find Cyrus again. Whatever that means.</p><p class="p3">He pulls at Cyrus's shirt to get at the warmth of his skin. Sliding his hands up from Cyrus's waist, Therion pushes the shirt out of the way, gratified at the way that Cyrus almost growls, moving his hand to the back of Therion's neck to deepen the kiss. Then Therion's fingers find raised skin and—he stops, sharply inhaling away from Cyrus's lip, his fingers on a messy web of scar tissue where flesh was torn, freezes like the wound is still there like he's touched blood like he can see Cyrus writhing insensate in the back of a cart—</p><p class="p3">Cyrus puts his hand over Therion's. He flattens his palm, pressing both their hands to the scar, and Therion inhales back to the present. His other hand remains in Therion's hair. He tugs, just a bit. Enough to make Therion look up into his eyes. Cyrus looks a little uncertain, but his face is flushed, healthy—and sharpened with desire. He's not the one who stopped. He's never been the one who stopped.</p><p class="p3">Maybe, Therion thinks, this feeling isn't meant to be broken. Maybe no fighting in the world would make it go away. Maybe it wasn't supposed to go away.</p><p class="p3">Therion leans up and kisses him, then moves his mouth hungrily down, along Cyrus's jaw, to the pulse of his neck. He keeps at the shirt, until Cyrus has to pull away to let Therion yank it over his head.</p><p class="p3">"Lugging all those books around is quite a workout, huh," Therion murmurs, taking a moment to drink in the lean muscle of Cyrus's body before pressing him toward the bed. Cyrus laughs as he stumbles backward. He says something about keeping pace with a bunch of fighters, but Therion was joking anyway, and shuts him up again in his new favorite way.</p><p class="p3">It seems unfair that Therion is still in all his clothes, even his cloak and scarf trailing from his neck, so he obliges when Cyrus starts to peel the layers away. The scarf disappears, the cloak, the leather, the hidden belted daggers that make Cyrus blink in surprise... The air is just starting to hit Therion's sweat when Cyrus pauses in the middle of unbuttoning Therion's shirt.</p><p class="p3">"Heh," Cyrus says, catching his eye. "You're not going to run away <em>now</em>, are you?"</p><p class="p3">Therion sits up, still straddling Cyrus's thighs. "What?"</p><p class="p3">"Back in Wellspring... in more than one way. And Victor's Hollow," Cyrus says. His hands are at a shirt button, and he flicks it free. His fingers stretch to brush Therion's stomach. He lets out a small laugh. "It was only a comment, a passing joke. Take no mind."</p><p class="p3">Run? It's one thing to evaluate the situation and see that going solo is best for everyone, but Cyrus seems to imply Therion constantly bails on situations for no reason. Tensed and leaning away, he looks down at Cyrus.</p><p class="p3">"You don't make comments out of nothing."</p><p class="p3">"Not out of nothing, I admit, but insignificant. An ill-thought comment, considering how you stayed when I was injured, even when you should have gone ahead. But I was thinking only of the times when we kissed and I failed to keep you. I apologize," Cyrus says, sincerity filling his voice. Failed to keep him? As though it were Cyrus's fault that Therion left him in that alley. Cyrus runs his hands along Therion's thighs. A shiver runs up Therion's spine, even as he's tempted to leave out of spite.</p><p class="p3">In a low voice, Cyrus adds, "I only ask that you don't leave without some measure of satisfaction."</p><p class="p3">"Hmph," Therion says, his arms crossed. Cyrus's hands sit heavily on his hips, which Therion ignores, with difficulty, for just a moment longer. He gazes down coolly. "I guess we <em>are</em> locked in here."</p><p class="p3">"That we are," Cyrus says. His thumbs shift slowly, like he wants to continue his tactile study of Therion's body, but he waits. Simply looks up at Therion, his lips slightly parted as he breathes.</p><p class="p3">"Trapped until morning," Therion says, leaning down in no hurry. He puts a hand on either side of Cyrus's head and lowers himself to a kiss, then tastes his way along his cheek, to his ear. The dark, almost febrile energy still burns in him and twists his innards, even now, even with Cyrus's hands pulling at his shirt, and Therion mumbles, "Hell, tomorrow we may die."</p><p class="p3">Cyrus freezes under Therion.</p><p class="p3">Then he tugs Therion's shirt away, freeing it with a final firm yank when it catches the bangle, and he tosses it aside. It's barely speech, almost a groan, as Therion slides his hands under Cyrus's waistband, but Cyrus says, "Or we may live."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>&lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3</p><p>every fic i write that touches at all on Therion's chapter 3+ is me trying to fix the unearned emotional turn with Cordelia.</p><p>update: i decided to split the last bit a little differently so it's looking like lucky 13 chapters</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. shadows in the night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">In the smallest hours of the night, Cyrus stirs at some faint sound, perhaps snow tumbling from the roof to the ground, or a sharp blast of wind rattling the walls. He startles enough into wakefulness to realize he is alone in bed under the layers of thin blankets. Even in the meager bed, he is shockingly comfortable; they had the foresight to clean up and gather everything that resembled a blanket, before they collapsed into sleep. Except: alone. Cyrus blinks into the dark until it resolves into the tiny shack's interior. Therion sits on the ground by the door. Some perverse part of Cyrus's mind wants to joke again about Therion leaving, but he's wise enough not to, after Therion's reaction earlier. Besides, Therion is shoeless and only half-dressed, knees pulled up with arms wrapped around them. His face is buried in his arms.</p>
<p class="p1">"Aren't you cold?" Cyrus says, voice creaking with sleep. At the sound, Therion shifts, revealing his eyes. Cyrus half sits up, chilled air hitting his shoulders as the blankets fall away. Perhaps Therion <em>was</em> leaving, but innocently, to return to his expected bed, and he simply wasn't ready to face the frigid night. If the man is leaving, it makes sense. Therion had gotten what he wanted—they both had, hadn't they? Both used each other. As they were throughout this entire journey, traveling together only as it was convenient to their goals. That they are together here, in this shack, in these wilds, is only a fluke of where Darius is and where the tome is.</p>
<p class="p1">No matter, Cyrus thinks. Here they are. And it is too cold to go out into the dark. "Please don't feel that you have to leave. Come sleep."</p>
<p class="p1">Still, Therion says nothing. Cyrus sits up fully and pulls one of the blankets over his shoulders. He doesn't quite know what to do. He's not completely inexperienced in carnal matters, but when it comes to uncertainty, after, in the small hours of the night, he is faltering. If it were a matter of embarrassment over simple bodily functions, or in waking up tangled together, Cyrus wouldn't care. He is quite matter of fact with such things, as he sees no reason to be embarrassed by the aftermath of something so satisfying. But he woke alone, and Therion is too silent. He doesn't know why Therion came to him, or why he's pulled away in the night.</p>
<p class="p1">"If the others wonder, surely you can come up with an adequate explanation for being here," Cyrus says, "if you must."</p>
<p class="p1">Therion stretches for the nearby lamp and lights it with a flick of his fingers, then stands, crossing his arms so his hands are tucked away under the folds of the thick sweater, all without looking at Cyrus.</p>
<p class="p1">"You wanted to know how well I knew Darius," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p1">"You've already helped shape our strategy for when we meet him," Cyrus says, confused.</p>
<p class="p1">"There's... a lot more to it than how he fights. I met Darius in gaol when I was a kid. From then on, we were partners," Therion says bitterly. His voice evens out as he continues. "Any town we came to, we ran through like bandits. First it was get enough to survive, then enough to live well, then, hell, just for fun. Everything we could get. We pushed each other—heh," Therion laughs without humor. "Few years go by, and I start to feel like, well, Darius is acting a little odd. Forgetting to split hauls until I ask. Not telling me about jobs 'til the last minute. But we're partners. And it goes away, or seems to. Then a few years back, I'm outside of Bolderfall, heading to a cave where I'd stash things short term, when I run into some bandits."</p>
<p class="p1">Therion pauses, and looks out the slat in the door. The reflection from the snow casts a faint line of light across his face. In the pause, which holds and holds, Cyrus realizes this is the most that he has heard about Therion's past. Small pieces have been revealed, almost incidentally, but never a sustained story. He almost holds his breath, to keep the story going. When Therion speaks again, the words come steady and fast, like if he doesn't get them out at speed, they're not coming at all.</p>
<p class="p1">"They overwhelmed me in the cliffs. They kept coming at me, until they were four, then three, then two. I tossed them the loot, expecting them to go for that and bolt, but they ignored it. Like they were the only bandits in the world who didn't do it for the money. But they did. Just not my money. I was hurt bad by then. I knew I couldn't handle the last two. Then a familiar face showed up, and I just, gods, I'd never been happier to see Darius. But soon as he walked up, the last two bandits stepped back and left me huddled on the cliff. They stepped back 'cause the boss had arrived. Turns out Darius sold me out for power in a gang. He waited in the wings until I was down, and he probably wanted that last glimpse of me, that last rush of power because next he told me what he'd done and he watched my face with his fucking weasel eyes as I got it through my thick head, then he grabbed me and pushed me off the cliff."</p>
<p class="p1">Therion falls silent.</p>
<p class="p1">"By the gods," Cyrus breathes, when he can breathe. He feels ill, and surprisingly lost for words. "What did you—how—?"</p>
<p class="p1">"I don't know. A traveler coming through the valley found me while I could still talk enough to promise a thief's treasure, if he would get me to a healer, an apothecary, anyone. I was in too much pain to remember much until an encampment at the edge of the Whisperwood. He'd left me there with a traveling apothecary, an Alfyn sort, to the core. Eventually I was well enough to leave on my own two feet." Therion pauses again. The pause carries months, perhaps years, of pain that flashes over Therion's face. Cyrus wonders if he still aches, now. "Eventually. The traveler emptied out the cache I told him about, of course, but I told the apothecary about another cache, told him to take whatever he wanted in payment. He saved my life, you know? Kept me alive for months when I could hardly walk. The cache I pointed him to was my biggest one, the one I was planning on using as a tidy retirement someday. I told him to take it all. You know what he took?"</p>
<p class="p1">Therion meets Cyrus's look in the lamplight.</p>
<p class="p1">"One measly bag of gold." Therion shakes his head. "'s probably why I bothered with Alfyn from the start. That whiff of apothecary. Sort of person who'd save my life at their own expense. What a selfish bastard I am."</p>
<p class="p1">"You give yourself too little credit, my friend," Cyrus says quietly. At the last word, Therion frowns, and it's not so dark that Cyrus misses it. Cyrus aches a little, for the day when Therion would hear kindness and accept it without thinking. "You believe that of yourself, but Alfyn told me of your exploits even as far back as the Caves of Rhiyo. I have seen more than enough evidence myself to conclude ten times over that you are not a selfish bastard."</p>
<p class="p1">Therion snorts, but his crossed arms tighten over his chest.</p>
<p class="p1">"Perhaps you err on the side of protecting yourself when the option is there, and Alfyn would be a way of protecting yourself. But it isn't selfish to want to live," Cyrus says, shifting to sit at the end of the bed. If he were to stretch out his hand, he could touch Therion. He almost wants to, but for the thought that Therion might shy away, in this mood. "Must I present evidence? I know how you hate my lectures."</p>
<p class="p1">"Maybe the subject'll be more interesting," he mumbles.</p>
<p class="p1">"Hm," Cyrus says. "Maybe, but I fear you'll get frostbite before I convince you. Come here, would you?" He lifts his blanketed arm. When Therion doesn't move, Cyrus says, "I hardly think you need to be shy. Come."</p>
<p class="p1">"It's not that cold," Therion says, but he moves to the bed. There's almost no pretense of resistance before he curls under Cyrus's arm. Hunched over, tired or cold or upset or some other thing that Cyrus can't decipher, Therion seems to notice Cyrus's hand, which is resting, fingers stiffly curled, on his leg. Therion takes his hand, more to inspect it than to hold. "This is still bothering you?"</p>
<p class="p1">Cyrus suppresses a small yawn. "Not every day. My theory as of now is that it correlates with sleep—position, quality, aspects such as that, you see? It isn't any bother, really, as it fades quickly after I wake, particularly if eased with a bit of massage."</p>
<p class="p1">To Cyrus's surprise, Therion begins to rub the tight muscles, starting from Cyrus's forearm and moving up toward his hand, which remains clawlike. He rubs small strokes with his thumb into Cyrus's palm, intent on the action as though it is the only thing that matters in this small, dark room. He's inexpert, but soothing. Cyrus sleepily leans into it, drawing Therion closer under his other arm. It's completely unnecessary—the night is long, and Cyrus rather hopes to fall asleep for a few more hours, which may undo this ease. But he closes his eyes. When he does, he begins to picture Therion a few years younger, a few scars lighter, cowering on a cliff. How could he have survived? In Cyrus's mind, a light comes over Therion before he falls (for Cyrus can't imagine the fall itself) as it had fighting the behemoth. A fall that would kill a man, if not for a breath of the divine. Not untouched by it, but alive.</p>
<p class="p1">This night, Cyrus had seen the scars on Therion, but Cyrus cannot read past hurts in a body like Alfyn might, so he had thought little of the sight. But now he wonders which scars were from a foe, and which from a friend. Or if there had been a difference, for Therion.</p>
<p class="p1">"Do you plan to kill this Darius figure?" Cyrus asks.</p>
<p class="p1">"I have to," Therion says, pressing too hard at the base of Cyrus's thumb. Cyrus extracts his hand and sits with Therion's answer. There was no heat in the words, which Cyrus finds curious, but ultimately irrelevant. His hand is more relaxed now, and after stretching it, he touches Therion's jaw to make him turn and meet Cyrus's gaze.</p>
<p class="p1">"Please know," Cyrus says, "if I have the slightest chance, whether fairly in battle or not, I will end his life."</p>
<p class="p1">"What?"</p>
<p class="p1">"If you do not get to him first, for the wrongs he has done to you and the way he made you suffer—"</p>
<p class="p1">"No," Therion says, shaking his head and trying to pull away. Cyrus holds him fast. "That isn't why I told you. That isn't—you don't owe me that—"</p>
<p class="p1">"Owe you?" Cyrus interrupts. "Owe you for what? Don't be so mercenary. This man grievously hurt you. If we had not parted from Primrose, wouldn't you have hunted by her side for her father's betrayers?"</p>
<p class="p1">"But you're not like me."</p>
<p class="p1">"You think you act in bloodlust and I do not. But I think we are both more balanced than that. Perhaps I would not have made this same vow to Primrose, but I would certainly have helped in her fight. In this case, though, for what Darius did, and for you—" Cyrus breaks off, not sure exactly what he means to say. Surely not such a declaration? He holds the worn blanket tight around them both. "Long ago, I asked that you trust me to fight by your side. Do you?"</p>
<p class="p1">Within Cyrus's close embrace, Therion rests his head on his shoulder. This means that Cyrus cannot see the thief's face as silence hangs in the dark, but he can feel his breathing grow relaxed.</p>
<p class="p1">"Yes."</p>
<p class="p1">"I'm glad," Cyrus says. A moment later, he adds, "That was a simpler time."</p>
<p class="p1">There is a moment of quiet after Cyrus's statement, then Therion moves in his arms to look at him with confusion. Cyrus sighs. He isn't sure how to explain what he meant; his brain is still slightly addled by sleep or he never would have said that in the first place. Clutching the blanket around them with one hand, the other traces up Therion's shoulder, up his neck, and down.</p>
<p class="p1">"Fighting by your side is a matter of life or death. Embarking on this journey, we said, was a matter of aligned interests. That is not to say I didn't enjoy your company from the start, but now... Now I think that being such comrades in arms is paltry in comparison," Cyrus says.</p>
<p class="p1">"In comparison to what?" Therion barely speaks.</p>
<p class="p1">Cyrus opens his mouth and shuts it, at a loss for words. His fingers find their way up Therion's neck and he idly rubs behind the man's ear, mussing the pale hair that has grown long over their journey. When Cyrus remains silent too long, Therion pulls away enough that the blanket slips from his shoulders. He looks worried.</p>
<p class="p1">"In comparison to what?" he asks again.</p>
<p class="p1">"I don't know," Cyrus says with a small smile. "For now, perhaps, sleeping a few more peaceful hours?"</p>
<p class="p1">The worry doesn't disappear from Therion's face, but his expression eases. He stands, only to free a stuck blanket and allow Cyrus to stretch out on the cot. For a moment, Therion looks down with a blanket clutched in his hands.</p>
<p class="p1">"Do you trust me?" he asks.</p>
<p class="p1">"Without a doubt," Cyrus says.</p>
<p class="p1">Because Therion has his back to the lantern, his face is in shadow, and Cyrus can't be sure if a smile flickers across Therion's face. But he can see the small nod. Then Therion adds the last blanket to the pile on top of Cyrus, and slips under Cyrus's outstretched arm.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. if he caught me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p3">Because Therion becomes a blur dancing through the cellar, later Cyrus will only remember this moment as a feeling—not a visual, not a sound, nothing that comes from his physical senses. Only wonder, rising from his gut. A wind gusting through without any air. The crashing destruction of a storm embodied in small blades. The silent gleam of a harvest moon. Cyrus thinks of this, this calling to Aeber, this embodiment of a god, in ways that would make a good poet groan, but it's all he can do. To say <em>Therion moved very fast</em> fails to describe the truth of it. The room freezes, a god sweeps in, and then.</p>
<p class="p3">Then Therion stands on the far side of the room. Fear flashes in Darius's eyes, as blood seeps onto his shirt from Therion's attack. His lackeys are on the ground. But Darius laughs, still standing.</p>
<p class="p3">"Was that your grand finale, partner?" Darius spits, his mouth bloody. He finds his footing again. Though he's bruised and bleeding, he doesn't seem to have any less fight in him. And though Therion had let the god's magic flow through him and out again, seemingly not even dizzy, he pants from the effort. He won't be able to do that again.</p>
<p class="p3">The others are scattered around the cavernous room, using the shadows as much as they can. Cyrus catches Primrose's eye as she sidles up to Darius across the way; the thief is too focused on Therion to notice her at first. Her nod, and a quick gesture, says she's not planning a true attack, but a feint that Cyrus is perfectly positioned to take advantage of. Darius is getting less canny, less suspicious as the fight drags on, so when Primrose sends a void of magic toward him—grazing his hip and making him turn—he locks onto her, and not the scholar now behind him.</p>
<p class="p3">A blast of his own magic would be satisfying, but not as sure a thing as a blade. Cyrus leaps forward with all the speed and agility that Primrose has trained into him. Before Darius can react, Cyrus has him by the hair, and he's bringing a knife to the bastard's throat in a smooth, swift motion—when Therion yells his name. Cyrus's hand doesn't falter, but his eyes flick to Therion. Instead of a cutting arc, Cyrus presses the blade under Darius's chin, making him go utterly still. In front of him, Primrose shakes off the cut Darius had just given her, and approaches with her own blades drawn.</p>
<p class="p3">"Back!" Therion shouts. Primrose wavers. Takes a step away.</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus doesn't move. He presses the blade but doesn't cut, his eyes on Therion, his mind on the previous night. "I told you—"</p>
<p class="p3">"<em>No!</em>" Therion yells, though he's within arm's reach now. As soon as he sees that Cyrus isn't moving, Therion grabs a fistful of Darius's shirt, jostling him enough that Cyrus's blade scrapes roughly, redly, along his neck. Darius laughs, a wet, harsh sound, with blood bubbling in his throat. He spits at Therion, spattering red across his front.</p>
<p class="p3">"What, have you finally learned you can't trust others to do the job right?" Darius says. "Come on, then, finish this!"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion's grip loosens, and he looks at Darius with a spark of amazement. "Gods almighty. You've betrayed so many people you can't even begin to—" Therion breaks off in a laugh that seems to startle himself. It enrages Darius enough that Cyrus struggles to hold onto him, and Therion jumps back, barely avoiding a swing of a dagger.</p>
<p class="p3">"What happened to you? You were a <em>joke</em> in Wellspring!" Darius spits. "Gareth should've buried your pathetic corpse—"</p>
<p class="p3">"But he wasn't alone, was he?" Cyrus says, pressing his dagger until Darius stops struggling. Even so, Darius laughs again.</p>
<p class="p3">"A prissy scholar? That hayseed, and the whore? <em>Them?</em>"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion calmly weighs a dagger in one hand. With the slightest glance at his target, he slashes, and Darius cries out. Blood drips from his face down onto Cyrus's wrist.</p>
<p class="p3">"Yes, them," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">Darius hisses at the pain, then looks up at Therion. "If only I could be here to see your tender heart get torn to shreds again. Just wait until they know who you really are. Do they know about the Ciannos? About your stash in the mountains? Does he know about the Atlasdam—"</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus tightens his grip again. "Enough, already. As though your word would—ah!"</p>
<p class="p3">Darius elbows Cyrus and manages to strike exactly where a blade had earlier, and Cyrus lets go, breathless with the pain. Darius stumbles forward and catches himself, then darts to the side before Therion can grab him. They give chase, but in a scrambling twist, Darius sends a fireball scorching through the air. Therion rolls to the side to avoid it, but Cyrus takes it in the shoulder, the force of the blow sending him spinning. Wincing, he quickly puts out the burning cloth with his cloak. By the time the smoke clears, Darius is gone.</p>
<p class="p3">"Damn it all!" Cyrus gestures to the others. "Let's go! We can still catch up to him. He can't be moving all that quickly."</p>
<p class="p3">Therion grabs his arm. "We have the dragonstones."</p>
<p class="p3">"But Darius is—"</p>
<p class="p3">"Not going far on his own," Alfyn says."But more of his lackeys are sure to come down here and find us if we don't skedaddle. Are you up for a half dozen more of 'em?"</p>
<p class="p3">Dagger still gripped tight, Cyrus burns to go after the bastard, but Therion is calm. Tired, bloodied, but calm. His own bloodlust, for what it is, doesn't matter in the face of that. The stones are theirs; Therion picks up first one, then the other, giving them an appraising eye before passing them to Cyrus for safekeeping.</p>
<p class="p3">"Power, huh?" he says. "I wonder what they're really for, then."</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus doesn't like the touch of them, and wraps them tightly in cloth.</p>
<p class="p3">"Let's <em>go</em>," Alfyn says, and they're running before distant sounds can resolve into footsteps.</p>
<p class="p3">❈</p>
<p class="p3">They only stop after they've darted through half of Northreach and Alfyn notices Primrose clutching her side as she runs; Cyrus was nearly in the same state and simply hid it better. Behind some closed shops, they find a moment to recoup, and Alfyn sets to work. That it's dark hardly means the streets are empty. Whatever is happening to Darius, his men still prowl the town, so Therion paces, watchful. Snow has begun to fall. In the moment, this captivates Cyrus. This small moment of snowflakes like stars, falling among them. He touches Therion's shoulder with the back of his hand, trying to get him to look up. Therion makes a small face, hunching into his scarf. He wants to draw Therion under the warmth of his cloak, but his shoulder burns and his side aches, and he thinks perhaps the gesture might be too intimate to be casual. Before the thought is even through his head, Alfyn is coming over to them. Wordlessly, Cyrus nudges Therion forward, suspecting that he, as usual, has a few wounds he wouldn't bother calling attention to, and perhaps was trying to mask with his posture and his cloak. Cyrus only needs a moment of rest, really.</p>
<p class="p3">Alfyn pulls Therion away to sit on a crate as he administers salves and concoctions. From Therion's wince, he's had a rather bad blow to his knee, but not a bloody one. Only painful. His knuckles are a mess. His cheek is bloody, and he waves Alfyn away from his ribs.</p>
<p class="p3">"I know it's not fatal," Therion says. "It can all wait until we're—somewhere."</p>
<p class="p3">Still, Alfyn manages to see to his chest and bandage his knuckles, while Primrose hovers at the edge of the alley and watches for Darius's straggling men.</p>
<p class="p3">It seems impossible that Cyrus will ever forget the feel of Darius in his grasp, the way his swallow made Cyrus's dagger bob, the labored sound of his breath. He regrets only that he didn't act fast enough before Therion stopped him. The night before, too close to sleep for his thoughts to twist up with complications and rationalizations, Cyrus had nearly stumbled his way to a declaration. The promise he made, that he would kill Darius, was no half-awake lie. He was all too ready to drag his blade across the man's neck and let blood spill, his muscles tense with the effort he imagined it would take to cut deeply enough to be sure. Sitting here now, Cyrus feels ill at the idea of any man's life pouring over his dagger, and yet. And yet he would do it. He looks at Therion, who sits, irritated but patient, while Alfyn cleans and stitches his shoulder; he would go back and see Darius to his grave, if he weren't so sure Darius was there already. That is the least of things, though, the smallest aspect of what fills his chest and tangles on his tongue when he thinks of Therion.</p>
<p class="p3">He cannot rush over and cup the man's face in his hands, tut over his wounds, drag him back to shelter, because Alfyn comes to him next, and Therion stays on the crate, his hood pulled up against the snow.</p>
<p class="p3">"Cyrus! Why didn't you say anything?" Alfyn scolds, whipping Cyrus's cloak back after he glimpses the burn half-hidden. Therion stands, stepping forward to see over Alfyn's shoulder. Cyrus's arm is scalded, but not so badly that he'd thought it was worth crying out. A glancing blow from the final fireball. Bleeding and stitches were more urgent, but Alfyn huffs and works quickly. </p>
<p class="p3">Instead of watching Alfyn, Cyrus focuses on Therion, who scowls at him.</p>
<p class="p3">"It's nothing," Cyrus says to Therion. Alfyn covers Cyrus's burns in a numbing salve, and checks the rest of him for scorch marks and burns, but Cyrus had caught most of the blasts with his cloak, or neutralized them with a blast of ice in mid-air. Alfyn pulls Cyrus's clothes away from the cut on his side to apply a bandage.</p>
<p class="p3">"Hmph," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"It's not nothing," Alfyn says, "But it ain't as bad as it looks."</p>
<p class="p3">"See?" Cyrus grins as Alfyn steps away. Therion's grimace barely shifts. What strange light fills him in this moment, seeing Therion disgruntled and safe in the starlight. It's nothing like any excitement or thrill he's felt before, and not even like the first time Therion had unexpectedly kissed him—the gate that had been flung open in that moment, and he without a map. Cyrus had thought discovery, knowledge, understanding were the pinnacle of what he could find in life, but this is an entirely different, dizzying plane of possibilities. He is wonderfully unmoored, at sea in a new world.</p>
<p class="p3">"We'd better get to an inn or something," Alfyn says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Yes, we had better," Cyrus says, staring at Therion. He longs to stride over and kiss him, with the strength of all the words he can't quite find, but he doesn't move. Although Cyrus is bursting with affection and desire, he is stuck on Therion's eternal reticence and secrecy, and wonders if Therion wouldn't prefer to keep some things apart. Perhaps all things. This only troubles Cyrus a little—he would have Therion in secret rather than not at all. That it troubles him only means he will try to ask. Later, when they are alone.</p>
<p class="p3">When they arrive at an inn, Therion mutters something about needing to find Heathcote, and slips away with a small glance at Cyrus. Cyrus carries that look with him to his small nook of a room at the back of the inn. This could be, as he once thought, Therion slipping away for good, his own business complete. But only the most traitorous, weary part of him considers that a real possibility. He tries to stay up, but even the dull throb of the burn isn't enough to keep him awake.</p>
<p class="p3">A few hours later a tentative knock on Cyrus's window wakes him. Therion enters without a word, but once the window is latched again, his fingers graze Cyrus's shoulder.</p>
<p class="p3">"He hurt you," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"You, too," Cyrus says, and there are too many injuries to touch just one. Instead, he cups Therion's face and kisses him.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p3"> </p>
<p class="p3">Come morning, Therion wakes as he always does, curled on his side, rising abruptly out of sleep. But he feels the warmth of Cyrus behind him, sprawled over the small bed, a hand flung against Therion's back, a leg tangling with his own. He rolls over to face Cyrus, and the movement makes the other man stir. Cyrus pulls his arm up and turns his head to lean against his bicep, looking at Therion sleepily. </p>
<p class="p3">"Morning," Cyrus says. He brings up a hand to lightly touch Therion's brow. After a moment Therion realizes his thumb is tracing along the scars that still stand out there, one, two, three, before Cyrus moves to push Therion's hair back. Instead of looking up, Therion stares at his own hand, splayed across the wrinkled shirt that Cyrus had pulled on in the chill of the night. He flexes and relaxes his fingers in a meditative way, the fabric pulling with him, the shadows of scars beneath the fabric.</p>
<p class="p3">"I'll never be sure he won't show up again," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Do you regret not—?" Cyrus asks. Shifting his gaze, Therion looks at Cyrus without moving his head on the pillow. Cyrus adds, reassuringly, "I can't imagine he crawled out of those cellars alive, even if he did evade us."</p>
<p class="p3">"I don't regret it," Therion says. It feels like he's only just convinced himself. "I'm not that person. Not anymore."</p>
<p class="p3">"What person?" Cyrus asks softly. He lifts his hand and tries to press it to Therion's, but his fingers are stiffly curled. Therion sits up in the bed and takes Cyrus's hand, starting to massage the cramp away as though this was what they did every morning, a hundred times before, so commonplace it's not worth acknowledging.</p>
<p class="p3">"The sort who lives for spite and vengeance and nothing else," Therion says. "Though spite keeps you alive pretty well in a pinch."</p>
<p class="p3">Already, Cyrus's hand is relaxing, and when Therion pauses in his movements, Cyrus turns his wrist and laces his fingers between Therion's. Perhaps the move is meant to say that his hand is good enough now, or that he wants Therion to be still, or to continue talking, but Therion is busy thinking of being alive. He moves to his knees and crouches over Cyrus. In the night, in Cyrus's little shack, before Northreach, Therion had spent a while staring into the dark before Cyrus stirred. He'd thought of running, he really had, of running and pretending later that the night hadn't mattered, but he stalled and stalled. In the dark, he'd only had the sound of the wind outside, and Cyrus's breath inside. Steady. Alive. Oh, alive, in the dark, and Therion had been so certain that wouldn't be true the next night, for one of them. Because he had woken up warm in a frozen waste, and how could that be? How could he wake in the arms of someone beautiful and decent and sharp and, in his way, innocent?</p>
<p class="p3">Yet they both woke again, this morning, warm, together. Therion doesn't know about tomorrow, or the next day, or the next—those things will come as they do. In some weeks, they may be far apart, or they may be side by side. But now Therion is leaning over Cyrus with a wicked grin. He keeps himself up with one hand and runs the other through Cyrus's hair, which is a ruffled mess, loosely splayed on the pillow.</p>
<p class="p3">"You look debauched," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Hmm, how terribly astute of you. I was ready to seek out breakfast, but with that look in your eyes..." Cyrus says, even now, tangled in the bedclothes, refusing to use one word where six will do. He pulls Therion down into a lazy kiss, dragging his teeth lightly across Therion's lower lip as they part. In a rumble, he adds, "I feel positively lascivious."</p>
<p class="p3">Therion may roll his eyes a little at the scholar's vocabulary, but he gets the gist. Moving to straddle Cyrus's hips, Therion deepens their kiss, then starts to bite his way down Cyrus's neck. He decides that they can both wait a little longer for breakfast.</p>
<p class="p3">❈</p>
<p class="p3">The sun is bright in the small window when Therion sighs with annoyance and says, "If we don't get on the road soon, we won't get far enough south to camp."</p>
<p class="p3">"What about that waystation we stayed at the other night?" Cyrus asks. He idly traces the bones of Therion's hand, up and down each finger, circling each knuckle. Distractedly, he says, "How did you get such wonderfully talented hands?"</p>
<p class="p3">"Stole 'em," Therion says. " That's only a few hours away. We need to get moving to Duskbarrow."</p>
<p class="p3">Reluctantly, Therion pulls himself away and starts to get dressed. When he pulls on his trousers, Alephan's talent falls out of the pocket. He retrieves it and flips it between his fingers. Left to his own devices, maybe Cyrus would never ask about his quitting again, since Therion was practicing now. Maybe he stopped wondering why Therion pushed the magic away, but Therion circles back to it again and again, easily drawing up the image of the red rash across Cyrus's face. Grimacing, unconscious. Nothing like the ease in his face now, but that image remains so close to the surface of Therion's mind.</p>
<p class="p3">"I couldn't stand seeing you like that," Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"Like what?" Cyrus stops with his vest undone, as though realizing how intently Therion is looking at him.</p>
<p class="p3">"Broken. Torn up. It made me crazy, Cyrus, seeing you so close to death. I hadn't cared about anyone else living or dying for a long time. That's why I stopped. If I wasn't trying to learn magic, then I wasn't spending so much time with you," he says. Looking down, he holds the talent loosely, and swallows, his throat dry. "Maybe I'd quit caring again."</p>
<p class="p3">For a long moment, Cyrus doesn't move. It was too much, Therion thinks, and this is why he learned not to care. Caring is too much. Worse than being gutted by a dagger, and twice as lethal. He closes his fist over the talent and shoves it back in his pocket, then tries to remember where he threw his shirt, but he can't focus. Had it ever been the mere convenience he excused it as? Maybe. Maybe at the very first. Right up until the moment he grabbed Cyrus's collar and saw his eyes that close, right up until his heart leaped in his chest and he'd jumped at a reason to back off again, to run away. If it had been convenience, he'd've followed through that night in Wellspring.</p>
<p class="p3">"I do understand how frightening that must have been," Cyrus says, at his back. Therion doesn't turn around. There's a hand at his wrist, lifting his arm, and Cyrus guides Therion into his shirt, one sleeve at a time. He settles the shoulders into place, and gently turns Therion around. Button by button, word by word, he continues. "At the time, I was not certain that you did more than tolerate any of us for the sake of convenience. During my recuperation, I began to think that perhaps there was more, that you did think of us as friends, but you keep such things closely guarded that I never spoke of it, no matter how certain I felt. When you returned the talent to me, I thought... Truth be told, I'm not sure I composed a theory that fit the facts that I knew. Six theories that half fit the facts, at best. Perhaps I thought it was due to that divine touch of magic unsettling you. I certainly didn't suppose that you stopped because you cared too much."</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus keeps tugging at Therion's shirt as though it's not fitting right, until Therion grabs his hands. Maybe Cyrus is just as uncomfortable as he is. It still feels like his chest has been splayed open by admitting that he cares if Cyrus lives or dies, that he cares about <em>Cyrus</em>, but it's too late to take it back. He'll have to walk around like this, knowing. Even a night before, he could have managed to deny it to himself, claimed this was physical proximity and nothing more, but that damned talent. The second he saw it, he knew, beyond doubt.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion wonders if Cyrus feels raw and wounded and horribly alive, too. What words had he failed to find the other night—more than comrades in arms? More how? If Cyrus couldn't come up with the words, Therion certainly can't. He turns away to find Cyrus's cravat.</p>
<p class="p3">"I'd say they're going to leave without us, 'cept we're going to Duskbarrow for you anyway," Therion says, tossing the fabric to Cyrus. He finishes dressing as fast as he can.</p>
<p class="p3">Despite their laziness in rising, they beat Alfyn and Primrose to the tavern attached to the inn. Or, Therion considers, they missed them entirely and will have to go searching. He picks a table for four, just in case, far from the cold air at the door. They sit in two adjoining chairs, angled close enough to have their knees bump, close enough that if he wanted, he could grab Cyrus's hand without any reach at all.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion wraps his hands tightly around a cup of tea when it arrives.</p>
<p class="p3">"You think that book's waiting for you in Duskbarrow?" Therion asks. Cyrus nods. "So you're done after that. You go home."</p>
<p class="p3">"Hm?"</p>
<p class="p3">"The headmaster's the one who used the rumor to kick you out of town, and the story is, he's dead. Nothing stopping you from going back to your life," Therion says to his tea.</p>
<p class="p3">"I suppose that's true. Assuming the book is there, and I am able to lay hands on it. Whatever waits for me there... And once I recover this book, I shall have to return it safely to the library in Atlasdam," Cyrus says, a thoughtful frown furrowing his brow. He seems too distracted by the thought to register that bowls of porridge have appeared in front of them, ready to eat.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion hates this. He can both accept that whatever this is might end, and also hate the idea. He won't follow anyone around like a lost dog, and he absolutely won't beg someone to change their life around. So he'll travel these last few roads with Cyrus, and then Cyrus will go back to his cushy life at the university.</p>
<p class="p3">After a moment, Cyrus turns to Therion. "And you shall return home to Bolderfall, I suppose?"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion shrugs his scarf up to his ears. "I never found Heathcote. I still have to return the stones."</p>
<p class="p3">"And return to <em>your</em> life there."</p>
<p class="p3">"What life? I've got some stashes around the city, but otherwise." Therion turns the bangle around his wrist. It'll be gone soon. He'll be free again. He could go right back to the life he'd had—and then what? Suddenly he can see a tomorrow that isn't overshadowed by the thought of Darius, one that could hold more than just another day, another theft, another meal to scrounge. "It isn't home. It's where I was when the worst thing happened to me, and I got stuck. Every time I headed somewhere else, I fell back to Bolderfall again soon enough. No," he says, deciding in that moment. "I don't think I'll stick around there."</p>
<p class="p3">"Where will you go?"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion stirs his porridge, not hungry. Home, he thinks. If only he had one. What had Ophilia said? It was the people, more than the place. She would go home to those she loved. As Therion thinks of her words, he fights against a surge of pain and hope inside him, tamping down any further thoughts of new definitions of <em>home</em>. He puts the spoon down and reaches for his tea before he turns the porridge into glue.</p>
<p class="p3">"Alfyn seems to be regaining his eagerness for his wandering apothecary ways. You could stay by his side," Cyrus says. His face is placid.</p>
<p class="p3">"I don't know, I might sock him right in the grin without you around," Therion says. Cyrus's mouth stretches to a small smile. "Or Primrose, or whoever."</p>
<p class="p3">"Heh," Cyrus says. He picks through his porridge to get a spoonful with a piece of dried fruit in it. After, he says, "I did have an interesting thought. If the book is safely in <em>my</em> hands, then there's no urgency to return it to Atlasdam—only the urgency of not having to care for it and carry it, which is hardly anything. So I need not rush back home, in that case, or at least no need to <em>stay</em> there."</p>
<p class="p3">Therion furrows his brow with uncertainty. "And?"</p>
<p class="p3">"And after Duskbarrow, perhaps... I have been able to unearth hints about possible locations of many of the shrines for the other gods, and undoubtedly there remains much more to uncover. Perhaps we might search for some of them, if that is of interest to anyone else. I have found some traces of a shrine between here and Duskbarrow—references on ancient maps and intimations in old stories. We might find them together," Cyrus says. Therion's worry starts to break. "Elsewhere, there is likely a shrine to Aeber, too."</p>
<p class="p3">The name still rings like a bell in Therion, though he's starting to understand it. Hearing it clears away the trepidation that had been building inside him, the desire to flee. It doesn't do anything for the raw sensation, but it starts to feel less like a mortal wound. The name of the god does all that—or maybe it's the invitation in Cyrus's words.</p>
<p class="p3">With ease, Therion says, "I'd like to find that."</p>
<p class="p3">"Then whatever happens in Duskbarrow, we go on together?" Cyrus asks.</p>
<p class="p3">Out of the corner of his eye, Therion notices Alfyn and Primrose come in. His eyes remain on Cyrus—through the momentary pause as the others look around, through the slow breath Therion takes, through their first steps toward the table—and Cyrus's eyes are extraordinary, Therion thinks, vivid blue and dancing, waiting for an answer—so before the others arrive at the table, Therion takes Cyrus's hand in his like he means it, every finger squeezing. He clasps tightly, and nods with a little half smile. Though saying the words makes some small, old part of him recoil, Therion says, "I want to stay with you. Shrines or not."</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus's smile is so bright it almost embarrasses Therion, if the urge to smile back weren't stronger. He means it. Atlasdam or sleeping in the dirt. Whatever happens, until he probably destroys this, someday. But until then. They're still grinning at each other like idiots when Alfyn plops down, matching their grins with barely a glance at their joined hands. He asks what's going on.</p>
<p class="p3">Therion feels giddy. He says, "We're going shrine hunting," and laughs.</p>
<p class="p3">"Are you?" Alfyn asks, looking at Therion with bewilderment.</p>
<p class="p3">"After Duskbarrow," Cyrus says, putting his other hand on top of Therion's, too. "Unless you had other plans, you're welcome to continue on as well."</p>
<p class="p3">"Oh ho ho! I'm in!" Alfyn says.</p>
<p class="p3">"We'll see," Primrose says. Alfyn looks at her questioningly. "First we have to deal with whatever waits in Duskbarrow. But..."</p>
<p class="p3">"If I find my tome, and we're simply wandering the land, there is no reason for you not to return to your H'aanit," Cyrus says. Primrose gives a small nod. "But you would both be welcome, my friend."</p>
<p class="p3">At this, Primrose raises her eyebrows, with a look of interest. Then her eyes return to their joined hands. "And what's this?"</p>
<p class="p3">"What d'you think?" Therion says.</p>
<p class="p3">"I think that I've never seen you show affection for anyone," Primrose says, but she says it with a growing smile.</p>
<p class="p3">"So I have high standards," Therion says, making Primrose laugh. Cyrus shifts his grip to twine their fingers together, and Therion greedily pulls his hand closer. He tries his best to ignore Alfyn's broad grin as they finish breakfast.</p>
<p class="p3">Within the hour, they are packed and ready to go, talk of gods and shrines stowed away for later. The road to Duskbarrow is not a short one, and they'll have to go by a longer path than they might in another season. Leaving now, and pressing hard, they should be able to avoid camping in the snow. Then again, if they had to, at least Therion wouldn't be shivering alone.</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus pauses at the gate of Northreach, looking out across the sparkling snow. The others pause with him. He gazes out with a focus that seems distant, like there's a shadow that only he can see beyond the horizon—a mood that Therion has noticed, here and there, when Cyrus is too far in his own thoughts, or musing under his breath. Therion puts a hand on his elbow. Cyrus glances at him, but his brow is still furrowed.</p>
<p class="p3">"I have traveled the continent in research for years now, and I have never stumbled across some of the things we've found. I am thrilled at each discovery—these shrines, these talents. The divine skills. But then, with all these monsters, their strength and number ever growing..." Cyrus frowns. He looks to each of them. "And coincidences—how strange it is, the way we fight together seamlessly, and work so well with each other's skills, from the moment we met and were still near-strangers. All of us—Tressa, too, and Ophilia—"</p>
<p class="p3">"And Olberic," Therion says thinking of the way they worked their way up toward Victor's Hollow.</p>
<p class="p3">"H'aanit," Primrose adds quietly.</p>
<p class="p3">Cyrus asks, "Does it feel like we're being prepared for something?"</p>
<p class="p3">Therion shivers, and pulls his cloak tighter. He has already chosen not to think ahead to possible dooms, and refuses to start again. So he says nothing, despite the chill. Alfyn gathers them close on the path, putting a hand on Therion's shoulder on one side, and Primrose's on the other. Cyrus puts his arm around Therion's waist, like it's a natural thing.</p>
<p class="p3">"If we are," Alfyn says, "I can't think of anyone I'd rather face it with."</p>
<p class="p3">Therion groans. "You sentimental goon."</p>
<p class="p3">"I consider you my friends, and I would face greater dangers by your side," Primrose says. She catches Therion's eye and holds it. "My dear friends."</p>
<p class="p3">"You've gotten soft," he says to her.</p>
<p class="p3">"Where it matters. Haven't you?"</p>
<p class="p3">Out of habit, he scoffs at her. But then, here he is, warmed by Cyrus's arm. Alfyn's, too. And if there is something larger, darker that looms over Orsterra, he feels better at the thought of the others joining together. All of them, together against the world. More than partners, more than comrades in arms. Therion imagines all of them together around a fire in the country, debating which way to go to find the next sign of a god. Whether it's Alephan or Aeber, or some god Therion doesn't know the name of. And what else might they find, beyond small talents? Who else might they meet? The lure of further adventure, without the weight of a bangle or the shadow of an old enemy, appeals to him—but conversely, so does stealing away with Cyrus and searching on their own; or doing no searching at all, on their own.</p>
<p class="p3">Perhaps they'd do that too, later on.</p>
<p class="p3">For now, he keeps close to Cyrus as they walk; close enough to hear his idle comments, close enough to make private comments of his own, close enough to share a glance without the need to say anything at all, as they continue down the road.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>happy solstice! thank you for reading! thank you for coming on this journey!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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